


Last of Them

by gaelicspirit



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Treville, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 06:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2260149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaelicspirit/pseuds/gaelicspirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post Season 1. It’s an unwritten rule of the Musketeers not to delve too deeply into another man’s past; it’s simply enough to be one of the brotherhood. But when their Captain goes missing, the Musketeers realize the only way to save him is to learn what he’s kept hidden for so long. And these men would willingly go through Hell to rescue the man who at one time saved them all. </p><p>“It is necessary to have wished for death in order to know how good it is to live.”<br/>- Alexander Dumas</p><p>DISCLAIMER: Nothing you recognize is mine.  Including the odd movie line; I like to work quotes in here and there if I can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reconnaissance

**Author's Note:**

> As I wasn’t booed off the stage with my first Musketeer fic attempt, I decided to give it another go. I wrote the bulk of this over one long weekend; it was initially intended to be a one-shot, then became a ridiculously long one-shot, and then grew chapters, each chapter becoming longer than the other. So, if you like your h/c with a heavy dose of plottage, well then, I wrote this for you.
> 
> This idea was triggered by a comment **TheTetrarch** made regarding Captain Treville. However, I’m fairly certain that this end result took a bit of a left turn from the initial prompt. *shifty eyes* I’ve alternated between d’Artagnan’s and Athos’ point-of-view as I find them rather like book-ends and infinitely interesting to write.
> 
> I feel I must note that I’ve taken quite a bit of artistic liberty with this story. Though I have read the novels, it’s been awhile and I’m completely enjoying the possibilities wrought by the storylines in the BBC show. Therefore, I hope the Dumas’ purists out there who choose to read can forgive me for imagining different pasts and personality traits than what may have been captured in the original tale.
> 
> That said, I have pulled several names and locations from Dumas’ own history to make up for stomping all over his narrative. Hope you enjoy!

The rain fell in heavy sheets, sending the already cool night air to frigid and causing d’Artagnan’s exhale to dance like a cloud in the lantern light.

It was usually warmer in the Musketeer livery; the bodies of the mounts slotted into the side-by-side stalls insulated with stacks of straw helped ward off the chill of the night. When the large door was shut, he found it almost more inviting to stay in the livery than his own quarters in the garrison. Tonight, however, the large door remained open, specifically so that he could hear the rain.

Tomorrow, it would be a year; it had been raining that night as well.

It had been the rain that had driven him to encourage his father to stop. With no hat to shield him, and his cloak completely drenched through, he’d been breathing the rain, blinking it from his lashes, and feeling it hit the back of his throat as he’d opened his mouth to call out to his father. The chill had settled into his bones; a chill that had never really left him except in small pockets of time when the light from his companions drove out the shadows in his heart.

Thunder rolled through the sky, sounding like a stampede in the clouds, and a flash of lightning illuminated the interior of the barn, causing several of the horses to snort and stomp nervously, including the mare he was currently grooming.

Moving slightly away from her anxious, quivering flank as she shifted to get away from the noise, d’Artagnan laid his hand flat on her neck, murmuring softly to soothe her.

“Easy, now. Easy, mare.”

She settled under his hand and he leaned close, pressing his face to her soft neck, breathing in the earthy scent of oats, sweat, and hay. It still grounded him, even a year later, the smell of the horses. It reminded him of home and farm life and his father and a time _before_. When his path had been laid out for him, expectations set in stone, despite his restlessness, despite his never having felt as though he belonged.

He hated the rain, though it seemed a constant in Paris, particularly in autumn. Since his commission and relocation from the Boniceaux home to the garrison, and without consciously realizing it, he would find himself gravitating toward the livery at the first sound of a storm and stay until it had passed, even when that had meant sleeping in the hay loft or an empty stall. He’d found he could avoid this particular habit if one of the three men – who’d seemingly adopted him into their midst – would haul him along to a tavern, or sequester him into one of their quarters for a game of cards or inebriated conversation.

The sound of rain took him back to that night, to the chill in the air and the shameful thrill of the fight just before the bandits had escaped, leaving him drenched, beaten, and alone with his father dying in his arms. He’d tried to replace that memory with others: the feel of Constance’s small, firm waist under his fingers, his nose buried in her perfumed hair; the satisfaction of seeing the Musketeer pauldron fixed to his shoulder; the deep, reassuring rumble of his friends’ voices.

But inevitably, if he were alone, as he was tonight, his mind would find its way back to that night and for a moment he’d feel himself break inside once more. His only recourse was to escape to familiarity, to something that had at one time been a constant. Curling his fingers in the coarse, dark hairs of the mare’s mane, d’Artagnan rested his forehead against her neck as she shifted her weight to her opposite leg, as if making room for him in the narrow stall.

He was standing thus when he heard the carriage arrive.

Pulling his head up, he stared curiously at the opened door. Carriages were not a typical occurrence in the Musketeer garrison. The men selected a horse when needed and that was all. Watching, d’Artagnan felt his brows lift in surprise as Captain Treville stepped out of the carriage, the rain immediately pelting his hat and running in a small waterfall from the brim down his leather-clad back.

Treville stopped and turned, eyes on the interior of the carriage and d’Artagnan peered closely, trying to see the occupant. He needn’t have bothered; he recognized the voice clear enough, even over the rain.

“We have an agreement, then?”

Richelieu wasn’t asking, d’Artagnan could clearly hear. His tone was smug, the way he stayed in the shadow of the carriage was smug, even the thin, pale fingers curled at the edge of the door were smug.

“I don’t recall agreeing to anything,” Treville retorted. “In fact, I remember telling you that you’re out of your mind.”

Richelieu leaned forward a bit and d’Artagnan felt his lip curl in not-so-secret hatred of the man. He was still sheltered from the rain, but his pale eyes were pinned to Treville in a way that made d’Artagnan’s skin crawl.

“You speak as though you have a choice in the matter,” Richelieu remarked. “I assure you, it’s quite the contrary.”

“You are asking me to _execute_ those men,” Treville all-but growled.

d’Artagnan felt his shoulders tense, his mind immediately thrown back in memory to the moment Aramis accused Treville of betrayal at Savoy. Treville had been acting on the King’s orders at the time, resulting in the massacre of twenty of his Musketeers. This, however, did not appear to be an order from the King.

“I am _telling_ you,” Richelieu said, leaning a bit further from the carriage so that the rain slipped down his face, giving it the appearance of being erased, “that if you do not find those men and _eliminate_ them, the King will know the reason why. It is your choice, Treville: the men from Villers-Cotterêts, or your Musketeers.”

With that, Richelieu grabbed the edge of the carriage door and slammed it shut with a dull thud and a splash of rainwater. The driver took that as his cue and the carriage pulled away, leaving Treville standing alone in the rain. The image of a man he found to be among the most honorable standing in soaked shadows was one d’Artagnan couldn’t hold onto for long.

He shifted, causing the mare to blow through her nose and stomp an impatient hoof. d’Artagnan watched as Treville shook himself and turned toward the livery, rather than the garrison. He knew he should announce himself; he had been eavesdropping, after all.

But he waited. And watched.

Treville stepped into the central aisle, his eyes on the middle distance, water dripping in a rapid, scattered rhythm from the brim of his hat and the end of his beard, falling in dull _splats_ against the straw-muted ground. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the other was curled into a tight fist. d’Artagnan couldn’t see the man’s expression clearly, but he could guess simply by his Captain’s stance that it was not a pleasant one.

Just then, Treville looked up, glancing around the stalls. “Who is here?”

Taking a breath, d’Artagnan stepped from the mare’s stall, showing himself. “Sir.”

“d’Artagnan?” Treville inquired, removing his hat, his face folding into a frown of question. “What are you doing?”

d’Artagnan tried to come up with a lie that would satisfy Treville and found himself drawing a blank. “Sir, it’s…raining,” he said lamely, crossing his arms over his chest and tucking his fingers beneath his biceps.

Treville stared at him another moment, and then to d’Artagnan’s surprise he nodded and moved toward the back of the barn where they housed the tack. “Yes, well. It does that from time to time. You may return to your quarters.”

d’Artagnan knew that he’d been dismissed and instinctively turned to leave when his conscience stopped him. “Sir,” he called out, causing Treville to stop. “Can I help?”

Treville’s shoulder’s sagged, but he didn’t turn around. “How much did you hear?”

“Enough to know you’re being blackmailed.”

Treville half-turned at that, narrowing his pale eyes and studying d’Artagnan carefully. “Athos has always said you are clever.”

“Athos is a good teacher,” d’Artagnan replied.

Treville flexed his hand once more and d’Artagnan recognized that it was his left; the shoulder that LeBarge had broken the day d’Artagnan received his commission clearly still pained their Captain from time to time.

“The Cardinal—“

“Is desperate to win back favor in the King’s eye,” d’Artagnan interrupted. “And is using you as a footstool in his efforts.”

Treville looked down, saying nothing.

“He cannot be allowed to manipulate you, Captain,” d’Artagnan pressed, stepping closer to his leader, but not reaching out as he might to Athos, Porthos, or Aramis. The Captain was not quite reachable in that regard. “Let us be your seconds. Let us fight him for you!”

At that, Treville’s mouth pulled into a sad, half-smile. “Your loyalty is admirable, d’Artagnan,” he said softly. “But misplaced in this instance, I’m afraid.” He looked up, meeting d’Artagnan’s eyes. “This goes much…deeper than the Cardinal’s fall from grace.” Taking a slow breath, his gaze slipped to the side. “This is my burden.” As he turned away, d’Artagnan heard him whisper, “They are my ghosts.”

“Sir—“

“There is nothing you can do tonight, d’Artagnan,” Treville broke in. “Things will be clear come morning.”

“Sir?”

Treville turned back to face him and lifted his chin, his eyes emptying of expression. “I saw Athos at the Grey Wolf earlier this evening,” he said. “Perhaps you should check to see that he’s returned.”

It had barely been a week since their elaborate ruse had served the explicit purpose of trapping the Cardinal in his lies, but the by-product of revealing Milady de Winter’s nefarious manipulations had weighed on Athos in the days since. Despite his mercy toward her offering him forgiveness, d’Artagnan had seen the dark look that settled on his friend’s face when left to his own devices too long.

Apparently, so had their Captain.

d’Artagnan nodded and began to head toward the door once more, when he realized that Treville was gathering supplies and a saddle bag from the tack room.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” d’Artagnan blurted.

In the year since he first stumbled into the Musketeer garrison, murder on his mind, Treville had only been away to attend to the King’s palatial summons, or on a mission with his fellow Musketeers. He’d never seen the man simply…leave them. He suddenly felt oddly off-balance and exposed.

“I have some things I must attend to.”

“You’re doing what he’s asked you to,” d’Artagnan accused. “Why?”

Treville squared his shoulders, addressing d’Artagnan with authority, though he didn’t look directly at him. “d’Artagnan, you are a fine soldier and will no doubt one day be an exemplary Musketeer, but I feel I must remind you that these facts do not grant you freedom to question me.” At that he did turn to d’Artagnan, but the young Gascon suddenly wished he would look away once more. “I have things I must attend to,” he said once more.

“How long will you be gone?” d’Artagnan asked, his voice thin.

Treville shook his head. “I am not certain.”

The way he spoke turned d’Artagnan cold; it was almost as if he wasn’t sure he _would_ return.

“Captain—“ d’Artagnan tried on last time.

“Get some rest, d’Artagnan,” Treville said, hardening his voice just enough that d’Artagnan heard the order. He softened his expression as he regarded d’Artagnan. “The rain cannot last much longer.”

d’Artagnan frowned, nodding slowly, as he wondered yet again how much his Captain knew that he’d not actually shared with the man. He made his way slowly from the livery, stepping out into the cold rain and getting immediately drenched as he lacked a hat or jacket. He’d nearly made it to his quarters when he surrendered to the inevitable.

He’d not sleep tonight. And he certainly didn’t want to be alone.

His first thought turned to Constance, but she was an impossibility. One that would haunt him to the end of his days, of that he was certain. He tucked himself up under the eaves of the first floor overhang and let his eyes roam the quarters that surrounded the courtyard of the garrison.

Treville had said that Athos was at the Grey Wolf. Perhaps Porthos had wandered there himself. He was certain that Aramis was spending his time elsewhere. The past week he’d spent every night _elsewhere_. Porthos had said Aramis was trying to forget something; he’d behaved similarly in the months after Savoy, but d’Artagnan hadn’t been sure what memories his friend needed to escape from. Everything they’d been through had been the product of their own elaborate hoax.

He was healing, Athos was alive, the Cardinal was exposed, and Milady had left Paris. There was nothing else to worry over. Aramis’ nighttime proclivities were simply his friend’s way of passing the time, d’Artagnan was sure of it.

Pausing for a moment to consider grabbing his cloak, d’Artagnan dismissed the idea as he was already quite thoroughly soaked to the bone. The Grey Wolf was on the Rue Saint-Honoré, two blocks down from the garrison. He began to run, not wanting to draw out the torture of the rain. Forced to balance his hand on the hilt of his sword so that it didn’t slap his calf and trip him up, he cut through the deluge, bypassing the occasional carriage and ducking into a doorway here and there to catch a break from the rain.

When he entered the Grey Wolf, the noise level immediately dropped as the few remaining patrons looked up, hands on weapons in unconscious, instinctive gestures, before registering that he was more of a drowned rat than a true threat and turning back to their lascivious interludes, conversations, or games of cards.

Gasping slightly at the lack of having to fight through water to breathe, d’Artagnan pushed his wet hair from his face and looked around. He spotted his friends almost instantly. Athos sat in the corner at a table, his hat resting on the surface next to him, his eyes on an empty glass and a full bottle of wine. Next to him sat Porthos, his fingers expertly shuffling a deck of worn, faded cards, his eyes canted to the side and resting on a very wet Aramis.

d’Artagnan made his way into the room, his gaze sweeping over Aramis. The man looked a wreck, and his eyes were, in a word, destroyed. He was looking directly at d’Artagnan, but it didn’t seem as though he registered who was approaching.

“Took you long ‘nough,” Porthos grumbled, clearly aware of d’Artagnan’s arrival, but not taking his eyes from Aramis. “Where ya been?”

d’Artagnan attempted to wipe the water from his face using an equally wet sleeve, stopping just shy of the table. Athos kicked an empty chair out, his only invitation to sit with them.

“And just how was I to know you wanted me here?” d’Artagnan muttered, working to shove the childish, yet ever-present feeling of not-quite belonging down low, into his gut.

“The ruse is over, d’Artagnan,” Athos murmured. “You should always assume we want you among us.”

d’Artagnan swallowed, coughing slightly and blowing into his cold hands. With an elaborate sigh, Aramis stood, weaving rather alarmingly as he did, his hip and sword hilt crashing against the table and shoving it toward Athos, and stepped closer to d’Artagnan.

“Come,” he said, a clumsy hand reaching to tap d’Artagnan on the shoulder and ending up somewhere between his hairline and his eyebrow. “We are both drenched. Let us warm ourselves by the fire. No use it going to no good.” Frowning at his tangled syntax, Aramis paused, swaying, and tried once more. “No good it going to no use.”

Apparently feeling successful, he turned a lopsided, heart-breaking grin upon d’Artagnan and dropped heavily down on the stone hearth, his legs splayed out in front of him, the fire to his left.

Incredulous, d’Artagnan stared at his friend, oblivious of the water still dripping from his chin.

“Aramis, are you…drunk?”

“Quite a bit, actually,” Aramis replied breezily. “I’m taking a page from Athos’ book. Is this how it works for you, my friend?” Aramis rolled his head along the stone to stare blearily in Athos’ direction. “You simply drink until the world grows soft at the edges and you cannot bring yourself to care anymore?”

“Do you want me to answer that or should I just glare?” Athos replied, his face impassive save his blue eyes, which slid to the side, resting stonily on Aramis.

“Ah, what does it matter anyway?” Aramis sighed, his eyes falling closed, wet lashes laying against purplish smudges, contrasting sharply with the pallor of his skin. “The days slip away and we are left clutching at air.”

d’Artagnan looked back at the other men, all thoughts for why he’d sought them out in the first place having evaporated in the wake of Aramis’ uncharacteristic display of intoxication.

“What happened to him?” He shivered slightly, crossing his arms over his body, tucking his fingers beneath his arms, thumbs up and out as he sat back in his chair to inch closer to the fire without getting too far away from Athos and Porthos.

“A _woman_ ,” Porthos spat.

d’Artagnan blinked. “A woman did this to him?”

“Women are at the crux of all men’s failures,” Athos grumbled, staring once more at his empty glass. “Were it not for them, we would never know defeat.”

Frowning, d’Artagnan remembered the image of Milady – _Anne_ , he recalled now – holding Constance hostage, a pistol at her throat. He once again felt the flash of panic, the helplessness that turned his heart to liquid and his stomach to ice. Shivering again, he pulled himself from his memories as Porthos slapped the cards on the table, glaring at Athos.

“Now don’t _you_ start,” he practically growled. “You made the right choice. You gotta let ‘er go.” He pushed the bottle toward Athos. “’ave some of that wine.”

“Wine is relaxing,” Athos declared. “I wish to be tense.”

Porthos sighed and it was such a weighted sound that d’Artagnan found himself looking at his friend more closely. Porthos looked tired. In fact, they all did. As if none of them had truly slept over the last week. Watching, d’Artagnan saw Porthos’ expression soften as he stared across the table at Aramis’ slumped figure. There were lines around his eyes, some d’Artagnan hadn’t really registered before.

Porthos had, he knew, earned every one of those lines. Quick to laugh – and the man laughed with his whole body – he was just as quick to glare dangerously, ready to back up every emotion that crossed his scarred face like quicksilver. Seeing him look so worried and weary had d’Artagnan pulling his brows down in a reflective frown, empathy leaving him feeling aged.

“He thinks ‘imself in love,” Porthos muttered, watching as Aramis slumped still further along the wall. “Every damn time. He gives ‘em his heart like it’s…paper. And they burn it up.”

d’Artagnan looked over at Aramis and noticed, belatedly, that Athos had shifted just enough that his hip was now supporting their inebriated friend’s shoulder, one hand resting comfortingly on top of Aramis’ wet hair.

“I’ve never seen him this affected before,” d’Artagnan said quietly, trying to suppress yet another shiver. He could feel his clothes beginning to dry, but not quickly enough.

Athos brought his head up and looked so pointedly at d’Artagnan the young Gascon fought the urge to squirm under his gaze.

“It’s a pain we’ve all felt, d’Artagnan,” Athos said, using his gruff, no-nonsense voice.

The man would never know how he reminded d’Artagnan of his own father when he spoke like that, the tone adding weight to whatever words he chose. _Charles, you must listen closely._ d’Artagnan swallowed, eyes on Athos. _Charles, you must listen._

“It wraps fingers around your throat and tightens its grip until you want to stop breathing just to make it end,” Athos continued solemnly.

d’Artagnan felt his stomach muscles tighten of their own accord, his body working to curl in and find warmth, his heart seeking protection. He said nothing; Athos was right. It was a familiar pain. He felt it even now. He just never realized that _Aramis_ felt it.

“Keepin’ it to ‘imself,” Porthos muttered, tapping blunt fingers on the table top.

“What was that?” d’Artagnan asked, pulling his attention once more to the man across the table from him.

“He always tells me,” Porthos shrugged. “No way that Mellendorf woman did this to ‘im.” Porthos jutted his chin toward Aramis. “Haven’t seen ‘im like this before, and I’ve known him for a lot of years.”

Something in Porthos’ speech seemed to rouse Athos and he straightened his shoulders, looked first at d’Artagnan, then over at Porthos.

“Will you need help taking him to his quarters?” Athos asked, his tone no longer morose. He was now speaking as their Lieutenant.

Porthos merely shook his head in reply.

“Good. See that it’s done. Meanwhile,” Athos looked at d’Artagnan, “you need to dry off and wait out the storm else we’ll be seeing you to the infirmary with a fever.”

“I’m fine,” d’Artagnan scoffed, suppressing yet another shiver.

“Duly noted,” Athos returned with an arched brow. “Still, you will take Aramis’ place by the fire once Porthos gets him up. I’ll not have two men down during training tomorrow.”

In that instant, d’Artagnan was reminded of his encounter with Treville. However, just as he was about to mention it, Porthos pushed away from the table and circled around in great, prowling strides to stand in front of Aramis. It was then d’Artagnan realized that the inebriated marksman wasn’t quite as far gone as he’d initially thought.

Reaching out a hand as leverage, Aramis allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. Once vertical, he leaned heavily on Porthos, allowing the larger man to pull his arm across his shoulders, and looked over the table, meeting Athos’ eyes. d’Artagnan wondered if it were truly drink making Aramis look so weary, or if this was the cumulative result of one too many attempts at female companionship. Could someone like Aramis be felled by a broken heart?

Something passed between Athos and Aramis in their shared look, and d’Artagnan knew from the low growl he heard Porthos utter that the swarthy man had seen it as well. There was something they weren’t saying, but it was evident that now was not the time to ask.

“Get some rest, Aramis,” Athos ordered. “You’ll be right by morning.”

Aramis looked down, then allowed Porthos to turn him toward the door.

“I ever tell you ‘bout the time I wooed a noblewoman in her carriage just so’s I could get one of ‘er rings for Flea?” Porthos was saying as the two made their way to the door.

“My dear Porthos,” Aramis replied smoothly, not one hint of liquor-slur to his words. “Carriages are where noblewomen are most vulnerable.”

“’at’s the truth of it,” Porthos chuckled as he lead Aramis through the door and into the tapering rain.

d’Artagnan turned back to Athos and saw the man looking pointedly at the hearth Aramis had just vacated. With a sigh boarding dangerously close to petulant, d’Artagnan pushed up from the chair and moved closer to the fire. It did feel marvelous, though he’d never vocally admit as such. He hadn’t realized how chilled he’d become, so focused had he been on Aramis.

“You know who the woman is, don’t you?” d’Artagnan guessed.

Predictably, Athos didn’t react other than to lift an eyebrow in d’Artagnan’s general direction.

“Something else happened to him last week,” d’Artagnan pressed. “Something more than…what we did.”

“Why would you think that you weren’t welcome to join us?” Athos asked, effectively redirecting d’Artagnan’s attention and causing the young man to look away, eyes catching on the flickering flames licking up from the glowing coals of the fire next to him.

The familiar insecurity, the longing to be part of something, the knowledge that he wasn’t where he should be, but not knowing where else to go, slipped under d’Artagnan’s skin and sat at home near his heart. He couldn’t articulate an answer that would satisfy Athos. He couldn’t even come close.

He simply settled on, “We played our roles rather believably well.”

“They were just that,” Athos assured him, rotating in his chair, the leather of his jacket and creaking with his movement. “Roles.”

Though it no longer hurt, d’Artagnan slipped his hand up to his side, fingers running over the scar he could feel beneath his loose, white shirt from where the lead ball fired from Athos’ gun had creased his ribs. It was still a bit shocking to think that Athos had shot him, ruse or no.

“I know,” he replied, his voice pitched low. “And we did our jobs. I just didn’t enjoy the feeling of…,” _abandonment, betrayal, loss…._ He glanced away, then cracked his neck, trying to look anywhere but toward Athos. “Being displaced.”

Athos was quiet for several moments and from the corner of his eyes d’Artagnan saw the man roll the wine bottle against the table, holding it by the neck with two fingers. He looked on the verge of saying something, but his enigmatic eyes made it hard for d’Artagnan to gauge if it was to be comfort or correction.

He was a Musketeer now, part of the King’s guard. Athos was his Lieutenant, his leader in more ways than simply friendship. He could no longer be accorded the liberties of youth, no matter if he’d grown up outside of Paris, somewhat innocent to the darkness that lay in wait. Each of the men in his new…family…coped with pain in their own way. d’Artagnan knew he would simply have to learn to do the same and not be outwardly affected when he felt that darkness creeping close.

“You lost something,” Athos began. “Something significant.”

“As have you,” d’Artagnan was quick to argue. “Porthos and Aramis as well.” Not wanting Athos to feel the need to protect him, d’Artagnan leaned forward, speaking under the noise of the dwindling crowd. “Your home was burned to the ground before my eyes. Your wife was key in a plot to _murder_ you. Do not tell me I am the only one who has lost.”

“Nevertheless,” Athos canted his head forward, tipping his chin down but keeping his blue eyes pinned to d’Artagnan’s dark ones. “It will take a while for the calluses to grow.”

“So I can become more like you,” d’Artagnan muttered, instinctively shifting toward the fire and away from the all-too knowing look in his friend’s eyes.

“So you can become who you are meant to be,” Athos corrected, tipping his hand up in a shrug.

d’Artagnan looked away. The tavern was shifting from the evening crowd to the late night crowd, filling with a decidedly different kind of patron. He could no longer hear the rain pelting the tavern roof or the cobblestone outside when someone entered or left the building. He was nearly dry from his trek out into the weather and was finally growing tired enough he thought he could sleep, but there was no way he was going to leave Athos sitting alone at the tavern.

Just then, Athos stood and moved over to nudge d’Artagnan’s boots.

“Come. Dawn will arrive soon enough.”

Pushing himself to his feet, d’Artagnan followed his friend to the door, stepping out into the rain-soaked streets. He shivered again against the night, his breath once more a cloud against the moonlight. Athos led the way down the Rue Saint-Honoré and d’Artagnan followed, silently, until they reached the archway of the garrison.

“If you won’t tell me who the woman is,” d’Artagnan said through clenched teeth, attempting to keep them from clacking against each other, “will you at least tell me that he’ll develop calluses, too?”

Athos stopped and canted his head. “Would that make you feel better?”

“A bit, yes,” d’Artagnan replied. “Just as it would if I knew you meant what you said when you let Milady— _Anne_ —live.”

“What did I say?” Athos asked, though his eyes exposed that he knew the answer.

“That you saved yourself.”

Athos lifted his chin and looked toward the garrison. “Things take time, d’Artagnan,” he replied. “Healing takes the longest.”

d’Artagnan looked at the muddy earth beneath his feet, foot prints mingling with hoof prints, small pools of water having collected in the aftermath of the rain. It had been a year. A year without his father, without the guide he’d looked to all of his life. A year where he could have easily wandered, seeking a path to healing, but instead found a brotherhood who caught him and held him.

He’d survived that year because of his brothers. He really should not feel a sense of loss any longer. Nor a sense that he’d betrayed someone who was now just a memory simply because he made a different choice. He really should not feel the occasional shift of balance where his future was concerned.

And yet…he did.

His father was gone, but then, in a way, so was his home. So was Lupiac. So was Gascony. Paris was different; his _life_ was different. Healing should be swift when reminders of the loss were scarce. But he still could not get through a night of storms alone.

“Go get warm or you’ll be no good for training tomorrow,” Athos ordered, his voice fading as he moved further into the garrison. “And, d’Artagnan?”

The young man lifted his head, surprised to see Athos so far away from him already.

“The next time it storms, find me,” Athos instructed, his tone offering no argument. “The livery is cold this time of year.”

_Charles, you must listen closely._

There were reminders, d’Artagnan allowed, and then there were _reminders_. And it seemed his friends not only recognized his search for sanctuary on nights like this, but knew exactly why he did so. He nodded his acquiescence to Athos, but the older man had already made his way to his rooms. 

By the time d’Artagnan remembered what had happened with Treville, Athos was gone. d’Artagnan looked toward his quarters, wrapping his arms around himself once more. Then, without further hesitation, he turned toward the livery.


	2. Sortie

Athos completed his morning routine – minus the need to shock his system awake via a bucket of icy water – and stepped out into the garrison courtyard just after dawn. Serge had placed bowls of food, covered by towels, on the long table and to Athos’ surprise, Aramis was slouched against a post next to the spread of food, a bowl in his hand, his eyes on the livery.

His hat was lying on the table next to his heavier cloak, but his jacket and pauldron looked clean and neat, his weapons were squared away, and while he bore a pensive expression, he seemed clear-eyed and quite himself.

Athos hadn’t expected the man to even be _conscious_ for several hours yet. He could count on one hand the times he’d seen Aramis as far gone in drink as he’d been the night before. Rolling his neck in an unconscious gesture of preparation, Athos crossed the courtyard and slung a leg over the bench, near where Aramis stood, the very picture of casual observation.

“Something interesting in the livery?” Athos inquired.

Without looking at him, Aramis replied, “A horse is missing.”

Athos frowned, pulling off a hunk of bread and craning his neck to look past his friend, though the entrance to the livery was shadowed.

“You know this how?”

At that Aramis did look at him, an eyebrow raised. “I was checking on our young Gascon friend.”

“Surely he didn’t sleep in the livery again,” Athos exclaimed, instinctively looking toward d’Artagnan’s room.

“He did,” Aramis replied. “Though, he’s not there now. I sent him to clean up before training. He looked a bit…rough.”

Athos glowered in the general direction of the livery. “That boy has barely an ounce of self-preservation.”

“Ah, so that’s what you see in him,” Aramis teased, glancing askance at Athos while lounging against the post.

With a pointed frown, Athos chided, “You and Porthos are too easy on him. If he’s to continue to keep up with this regiment—“

“Athos,” Aramis interrupted, his tone holding enough reproach that Athos swallowed the rest of his rebuke. “You realize what today is, yes?”

Confused, Athos simply tipped his head in question.

“This time next week will be a year since you faced a firing squad,” Aramis reminded him, looking away as thought the memory pained him. “Just after d’Artagnan charged into this garrison accusing you of….”

“…murdering his father,” Athos completed, slumping a bit against the table in realization.

It had been a year since d’Artagnan’s father died. No wonder the lad had been reluctant to leave his personal refuge.

“He needed some latitude,” Aramis stated.

Athos glanced up at Aramis, relieved to see that the sleep-deprived bruising seemed to be less beneath his friend’s eyes and his color had returned to normal. “You are looking remarkably well for a man who was four bottles in last night.”

Aramis hummed a non-committal reply and pushed away from the post, sitting down next to Athos, facing the opposite direction. Something about the set of his friend’s jaw and the way his dark eyes slipped and skidded away, resting on nothing, had Athos’ senses on alert.

“What?” Athos prompted.

Aramis took a bite from the grains in his bowl, not responding.

“Aramis,” Athos stretched out the name. “What did you do?”

“Confession, my friend,” Aramis glanced to the side, his dark eyes heavy with secrets, “truly _is_ good for the soul.”

Athos frowned. “You…went to confession? At this hour?”

“Not exactly,” Aramis hedged, then glanced over his shoulder as the sound of boots against the boardwalk caught their ears.

Athos looked up and saw Porthos pause at the edge of the courtyard, tying a scarf around the crown of his head, keeping the thick rope of his hair bound behind him. His schiavona was conspicuously absent from his weapon’s belt, but other than that, he seemed no worse for the wear.

Then, Athos caught the expression darkening his friend’s scarred face. And he knew in that instant what had lifted the weight from Aramis’ shoulders so thoroughly.

“You told Porthos,” he accused, his tone carrying a knife’s edge to it.

Aramis gave him a side-long glance. “I take it you think that was not a good idea?”

“Quite a bad one, actually,” Athos said, barely keeping his voice from descending into a growl. “At this rate you’re going to get us _all_ hanged.”

Porthos approached slowly, and Athos found it difficult to meet the man’s eyes.

“It was an accident,” Aramis whispered.

Athos’ jaw tightened, his teeth clenching. “You _accidentally_ confessed to sleeping with the Queen?” This time, he did growl.

“Oi,” Porthos snapped as he sat down. “Mind saying it a bit louder? Not sure Treville heard you.”

“Athos, listen,” Aramis hissed, grabbing his arm in a plea for attention. “You need to understand something.”

Athos turned the full force of his terror for his friend’s fate into an angry glare that rolled into fury as he spoke in a low, hushed tone. “Understand _what_? That you are a man and she a woman and you simply couldn’t help yourself? Or perhaps that _she_ enticed _you_? What could you _possibly_ say that would make this – and _everything_ that’s come from this – acceptable?”

Porthos pounded a fist against the table, catching their attention and causing Aramis to jump.

“Not. _Here_.”

Without waiting to see if they would follow, Porthos stood, moving past them and heading to the livery. Aramis stood, grabbed his hat, and followed. Athos sighed, staring at the table for a moment before glancing up to see the garrison slowly waking around him. Musketeers filtered into the courtyard, several making their way toward the breakfast table.

He did not yet see d’Artagnan, and for that he was relieved. The longer he could protect their young friend from this truth, the safer he’d be. As it was, the three of them were treading a very thin line between honor and the hangman’s noose.

Grabbing Aramis’ cloak from the table, he stood and stormed toward the livery where his friends were waiting. As he entered the darkened building, he saw Jacques hurrying out toward the breakfast table. The stable boy was typically the only occupant in the livery – save for the times d’Artagnan used it as his alternate quarters – and Athos knew they would be alone.

He headed back toward the tack area, noticing as he passed the stalls that Aramis had been correct about the missing horse. It was a gelding that Treville typically preferred to ride when they accompanied the King on a hunt. He mused that he hadn’t heard of the King summoning Treville, but ignored that concern in the face of the bigger one.

“Tell me,” he hissed the moment he saw Porthos and Aramis lurking in the back of the livery, “how you find yourself accidentally confessing something like that to your friend, when knowing it could get him killed.”

He tossed Aramis’ cloak at him and glared, his worry dangerously close to the surface.

“I said her name,” Aramis sighed, catching the cloak one-handed and flinging it over his shoulder.

“You said—“

“I was drunk,” Aramis snapped. “I was saying the first thing that came to my head….”

Athos glanced at Porthos who simply tipped his chin down in agreement.

“I referred to _Anne_. Porthos thought I meant your…Milady. He began to rant—“

“Weren’t a rant,” Porthos muttered. “More like arbitrary…well, threats or…. I was confused.”

Aramis nodded at his friend. “He was rather _vocally_ confused,” he allowed. “And in my haste to assure him that I had not been misleading you…I accidently told him about the Queen.”

“The _other_ Anne,” Porthos interjected, earning him an arched eyebrow from Athos.

“Aramis,” Athos shook his head, feeling suddenly quite tired. “You must be able to stand up to scrutiny!”

“It’s not scrutiny!” Aramis argued, stepping forward, toe-to-toe with Athos. “It’s _Porthos_!”

He said the name in such a way Athos heard an entire paragraph of meaning. They were more than simply friends and soldiers, the three of them. They were brothers, bonded and inseparable, regardless of circumstance.

Athos looked past Aramis’ heated, pleading gaze, and met Porthos’ eyes. The larger man said nothing, but simply lifted his chin, his expression softening into a knowing acceptance. He’d taken on Aramis’ secret willingly. It was clear that being in the dark would have been more of a burden than knowing. Nodding slowly, Athos dropped a heavy hand on Aramis’ shoulder.

“I just…I fear for you, my friend,” Athos said quietly. “This…dalliance…cannot continue. It will lead to your death one day.”

“This didn’t just happen,” Aramis said, moving out from beneath Athos’ hand and turning away from both of them to face the stalls. “You don’t understand.”

Athos exchanged a look with Porthos, quickly determining that they were both in uncharted territory with this one.

“Then perhaps you can help us.”

“I knew one of the nuns,” Aramis said quietly. “When I was young. d’Artagnan’s age. We were to be married; she was going to have a child. But, the baby was lost and her father…removed her from my presence.”

Athos felt something inside him shift. He’d noticed that Aramis had certainly not been himself at the abbey, but he’d had no idea how his friend had been affected by their presence there.

“Who?” Athos asked, his voice dry.

“Isabelle.”

For a moment, Athos was unable to remember any of the nuns save the feisty Mother Superior who’d helpful re-loaded muskets and harquebuses during the firefight. Then, he suddenly recalled the cellar and Aramis leaning over the body of the murdered nun, seemingly offering her last rites. And he remembered Aramis’ suspiciously wet eyes and the way his hand had trembled as he’d placed his hat back on his head as if nothing were wrong.

“Oh, my friend.” His genuine empathy bled through his words.

“The Queen discovered what had…who Isabelle had been. I could not hide my pain from her,” Aramis looked at Athos, then slid his gaze to Porthos, pleading for both of them to understand. “She was…,” he looked down. “She was kind. And lonely. And for a moment…she wasn’t a queen and I wasn’t a Musketeer. We were simply two people who…needed each other.”

Athos nodded, finding that he did, in fact, understand.

“And the truth of it is,” Aramis looked up slightly, keeping his chin ducked as though afraid to say the next words. “I love her.”

“The child,” Porthos said after a moment of silence. “It’s yours.”

Aramis looked down once more, his nod barely perceptible.

“We never speak of this,” Athos said quietly. “Not to anyone. Especially not to d’Artagnan.”

Porthos and Aramis nodded in unison. Athos reached out again and gripped Aramis’ shoulder, waiting until Aramis looked up at him.

“Your brothers have your back, Aramis,” Athos assured him.

Porthos stepped up, mimicking Athos’ stance.

“We will stand by you,” he said, solemnly.

Aramis’ mouth pulled up in a half smile and he nodded, eyes filling with a look of profound sadness. “d’Artagnan will know we are keeping something from him,” he predicted. “He’ll feel it.”

“It’s for his own protection,” Athos said, dropping his arm. “He’s still too….”

“Naïve.”

“Innocent.”

Athos looked from Porthos to Aramis as they filled in words. “Young. As much as it pains me to say it, life needs to rough him up a bit more before he can absorb such a truth.”

The men nodded, albeit reluctantly, just as they heard the Gascon’s voice calling to them from the courtyard.

“Athos!”

Turning as one they headed to the large, opened door of the livery. d’Artagnan was approaching them, his face pinched with worry. Athos had a brief moment to notice that even after a rough night of little sleep, d’Artagnan still looked achingly young, lacking the lines of age and worry he’d seen in his own reflection after similar experiences. Perhaps it was that he didn’t seem able to yet grow a full beard.

“Here,” Athos called.

d’Artagnan paused when he saw them emerging from the livery. “What are you doing in there?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“One of the horses is missing,” Aramis called out, smoothly providing a plausible reason. “I noticed it when I chased you out of here earlier.”

d’Artagnan’s face paled slightly and he looked away, a curse ghosting his lips.

“What is it?” Athos asked, at once concerned.

“You need to come to the courtyard,” d’Artagnan told them. “And then…we need to talk.”

He turned and headed back to the center of the garrison, not waiting to see if they would follow. Exchanging a confused glance with the other two men, Athos made his way forward, hearing Porthos and Aramis flank him. To his surprise, the entire Musketeer regiment was assembled, some fully dressed with their weapons and pauldrons in place, others having just rolled from their bunks bleary-eyed with shirts untucked.

Senses on alert, Athos looked up toward Treville’s office and found, to his surprise, one of the other four Lieutenants, René Belloq, standing where their Captain would stand to hand out orders. Frowning, he looked at Porthos and Aramis who seemed equally as puzzled, then over at d’Artagnan. The young man was hanging back, beneath the overhang, arms crossed over his chest, hands tucked beneath them, eyes on the ground as if deep in thought, though Athos could see tension practically emanating from his body in waves.

The lad knew something.

“Musketeers!” Belloq called, quieting the murmuring crowd. “I am here to inform you that Captain Treville has been called away and has left me in charge of the distribution of orders until his return.”

The men in the courtyard shifted and stirred at this news, murmuring undulating beneath the creak of leather and clink of metal, sword tips not yet sheathed banging against each other as the company turned to one another. Athos and his friends remained still, silent. Treville had never been simply _called away_ before. Not without informing them first.

“He left initial instructions for each of you,” Belloq continued and Athos caught the eye-roll that Porthos slid their way, “and then we will, as always, await the pleasure of the King.”

“This should be good,” Porthos grumbled quietly.

Belloq was a decent soldier and had been a Musketeer before Athos had joined the regiment, but he was rather proud of his noble heritage and had a tendency to publicly shame those – such as Porthos – who had not been of the aristocracy prior to receiving their commission. He’d nearly had a stroke when Treville had chosen d’Artagnan to fight in the contest that had earned the young man his commission.

Aramis placed a reassuring hand on Porthos’ shoulder and they awaited their orders. Belloq named the men individually or in groups, instructing them to either train new recruits, accompany His Majesty on a hunt, stand guard at Notre Dame where one of the royal cousins was being christened, or deliver missives on behalf of the Cardinal.

“Athos, Porthos, and Aramis,” Belloq called, finally. “Report up to my office.”

With that, he turned and retreated into the office, leaving the Musketeers to follow his instructions.

Porthos scowled. “ _His_ office,” he muttered. “Treville’s gone a day and he’s already redecorating.”

“He didn’t mention d’Artagnan,” Aramis noticed, looking over at their young friend who was doing his best to become a shadow.

“’at’s ‘cause he ’ates the lad,” Porthos huffed.

“He does not _hate_ him,” Aramis corrected, turning to face d’Artagnan along with the other two. “He simply has no respect for raw talent.”

“Tell me,” Athos ordered, causing d’Artagnan to lift his face as if startled, a plea for understanding in his eyes. “What do you know of this?”

“I meant to tell you last night,” d’Artagnan began, his voice quiet but urgent. “That’s why I came to find you at the Grey Wolf, but then Aramis—“

“Yes, yes, we’ve covered my indiscretion and lack of tolerance when it comes to wine quite thoroughly, thank you,” Aramis waved him off. “What happened to drive you out into the rain?”

Swallowing hard, d’Artagnan looked quickly around the yard, clearly not wanting to be overheard. Athos grabbed the young man’s arm, collecting him roughly and herding him into the nearest available open room, which just so happened to be the weapon’s store room. Aramis and Porthos filed in, closing the door behind them.

“Perhaps not the best choice for a confrontation,” Aramis muttered, glancing at the swords, muskets, harquebuses, and daggers neatly stacked around them.

“Speak,” Athos said, releasing d’Artagnan’s arm.

The young Musketeer began to pace in a tight back-and-forth pattern as he spoke, telling them about the Cardinal’s carriage, the words he’d heard exchanged, and how Treville had appeared just before he’d ordered him away.

“I knew he was going to leave – and that it would be to yield to the Cardinal’s wishes – and I came to get you, but…,” he stopped, shoving his hands into his dark hair and pushing it from his face. He wasn’t looking at any of them as the words continued to flow. “I got distracted and then when I’d remembered it was so late and you all had retired and all I could think about was that damn night at the inn and how my father….”

He bit off the rest of whatever he was going to say, stopped his restless pacing and turned to face them.

“I am sorry,” he said, squaring his shoulders, genuine contrition on his face. “I allowed an event that happened a year ago cloud my judgment and keep me from my duty.” His eyes shifted to meet Athos’ as if suddenly becoming aware that none of the other men in the room had said a word during his entire tirade. “I let you down.”

As one, Aramis and Porthos sighed, both relaxing their stance and hooking their thumbs into their weapon’s belt.

“Do you want to flog him, or shall I?” Porthos asked, tipping his head toward Aramis.

Aramis lifted a shoulder. “You take this one, I take the next one?”

“Seems fair.”

They took a step forward and d’Artagnan instinctively backed up, surprise and not a little bit of fear in his eyes. It took until Porthos’ wide, all-encompassing grin lit his face that d’Artagnan’s shoulders relaxed and he brought his chin up.

“You’re having fun with me.”

“Of course, you idiot,” Porthos said, hooking an arm around d’Artagnan’s neck and bringing him closer to them.

Aramis cleared his throat and nodded toward Athos, who, rather unknowingly, had maintained a completely impassive expression during the entire exchange, his mind whirring through the possibilities of Treville’s departure. Porthos and d’Artagnan straightened up, tugging their jackets in place and fixing their expressions into ones more appropriate for the situation.

“What do you know of Villers-Cotterêts?” Aramis asked.

Frowning Athos shook his head and moved slowly around the small room, his fingers idly stroking the weapons as he did so. “Treville spoke of it once,” he said. “A long time ago—“ he glanced at Aramis, “just after Savoy.”

Aramis frowned, but said nothing.

“I didn’t understand what he was referring to,” Athos confessed. “I thought it was the loss of the men that had him rattled, but then he dismissed it – and me – and I never thought of it again. Until now.”

“What did he say?” d’Artagnan pressed.

“That soldiers are rarely offered a choice and it was incumbent upon their leaders to be men of honor.”

Aramis frowned. “What could he have meant by that?”

“The Cardinal said that he had to choose between the men of Villers-Cotterêts or us.”

Athos regarded the young man before him thoughtfully. “He wouldn’t have just left.”

“And he wouldn’t have left Belloq in charge without good reason,” Aramis inserted, glancing meaningfully at Porthos. “If he had time to prepare, he would have turned the regiment over to Athos. Or Arnaud, at the very least.”

“He wanted you free from duty to the garrison,” Porthos guessed.

“I believe that may be the case,” Athos returned.

“What do you want to do?” d’Artagnan asked.

Athos lifted one of the daggers and turned it over in his hand before sliding it neatly into the sheath at his back. “I believe we’ve been called up to _Belloq’s_ office. Let’s find out what the man wants.”

They discovered the man in question sitting behind Treville’s desk, eagerly reading through whatever paperwork the Captain had left out. Athos had to clear his throat to grab the older Musketeer’s attention and when he looked up, his eyes landed first on d’Artagnan.

“I don’t believe I requested your presence,” he snapped.

“You seem to have left me out of the order distribution all together,” d’Artagnan pointed out.

Belloq stood. “I don’t believe that is the proper way to address a Captain.”

Athos felt d’Artagnan bristle and allowed him to step forward unchecked. Part of his plan depended upon Belloq being off-balance and Athos had yet to meet anyone who could toss someone off-balance as quickly as their young friend from Gascony.

“As you are merely a _Lieutenant_ and _not_ my Captain, I feel pretty comfortable with how I’m addressing you,” d’Artagnan returned, now standing squarely in front of the desk, his thumbs hooked casually in his weapon’s belt.

Belloq glanced past the lad to regard Athos. “You allow such insolence?”

“d’Artagnan is his own man,” Athos replied mildly. “It is not on me to allow it.”

“And here I thought that clever little plan you cooked up with Treville was simply an act,” Belloq muttered, a wry smile twisting his thin lips beneath his heavy mustache. “Perhaps there’s more to your _perceived_ animosity than you’d like to let on.”

This surprised Athos; the idea that men in the garrison might think there was any animosity between the four of them after their ruse hadn’t entered his head until now. Perhaps there was a way they could use it to their advantage. As long as d’Artagnan trusted him, that is.

“If you’re going to give the boy orders, by all means,” Athos said tiredly. “It would be a relief to not have him tagging along after us.”

d’Artagnan hid the flinch well, but Athos still saw it shudder quickly across the young man’s shoulders. He felt the same dark knot that had eaten away at him from the moment Treville proposed a way to trap the Cardinal begin to return. He forced himself to take a slow, steadying breath and sent a silent burst of gratitude to Porthos and Aramis for not outwardly reacting.

Bellow smirked once more. “I cannot blame you there,” he said in a conspirator’s tone. “More and more of these commoners are being allowed to weaken the backbone of our regiment. It makes one weary.”

“Look,” d’Artagnan snapped. “Are you going to put me to work or not? I can just as easily—“

“Yes, fine, insolent boy,” Belloq grumbled. “Go assist Arnaud training the new recruits. You’re decent enough with a sword.”

d’Artagnan bounced his head once and half-turned to leave, unable to resist a parting shot. “Hope you didn’t hurt yourself admitting that, Belloq.”

Athos saw Porthos roll his lips against his teeth in an effort to swallow his smile.

“Go,” Belloq grumbled. “And keep out of trouble; it would be a shame to also be required to dole out punishment in Treville’s stead.”

As d’Artagnan left, Athos caught his eye briefly, conveying with a look that getting into trouble was _exactly_ what he wanted him to do. When the door had shut behind d’Artagnan, Athos turned his attention back to Belloq, waiting while the man expounded for several more minutes about the weakening of the regiment due to allowing men in on skill rather than blood lines. Athos didn’t miss the supportive – albeit restraining – hand Aramis laid on Porthos’ arm.

“Now, as for you three,” Belloq sighed, sitting back behind Treville’s desk. “The Captain left instructions that you were to take this letter to the Cardinal, and then do exactly what he instructs. He cautioned that you may be called away from the garrison for several days as a result.”

Athos took the letter from Belloq’s grasp and nodded. Before he was able to say anything else, however, an outcry was heard from the courtyard, drawing Belloq to the window. As the man opened the shutters, Athos peered out and saw that d’Artagnan was in the process of fighting off both Arnaud and Mathieu, his jacket gone, his white shirt covered in mud at the shoulder.

“Damn that boy!” Belloq muttered. “What is he thinking?”

“It’s often hard to say,” Aramis replied, speaking for the first time. “Would you like us to contain him?”

“No!” Belloq turned to face them. “I will need to set an example if he is to respect my authority.”

Belloq pushed past them and headed for the door. Athos shot a look to Aramis and Porthos to follow. The last thing he wanted was for an over-eager Belloq to punish d’Artagnan for his role in their plan.

The moment the other men had left the room, Athos sprang into action. He remembered seeing the name Villers-Cotterêts in one of the ledgers Treville kept filed in the armoire behind him. It took several minutes longer than he liked, but soon he had the ledger out and the pages located.

Villers-Cotterêts was in Picardy and just so happened to be the birthplace of one Jean-Armand du Peyer, Comte de Treville. Athos drew his head back in surprise, knowing he needed more information. Placing the book on the desk, he ignored the shouting outside the window as he read on, his eyes widening as he absorbed the account of an uprising turned massacre that would have taken place when Treville was roughly d’Artagnan’s age. He continued to read until he heard footsteps pounding close and hurriedly closed the book, barely returning it to the armoire just as someone burst through the door.

He exhaled when he saw that it was Porthos.

“You better get down ‘ere,” was all Porthos said.

Athos was close on his heels as they exited the office and hurried down to the courtyard. He was surprised to find d’Artagnan, disarmed, being held tightly between two other Musketeers, Grisier and Bauer, neither of whom looked happy about their role. Aramis stood in front of d’Artagnan, his back to the young man, a hand out to Belloq in a silent plea to stop.

Belloq stood, a whip in his hand, pointing to a center post in the training yard.

“Belloq!” Athos bellowed. “What is happening here?”

“An example must be made!” Belloq replied, his tone clipped and brittle. “He will respect this regiment or be mustered out.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong!” d’Artagnan shouted.

Athos shot him a stern look, then turned to Belloq. “What are you accusing him of? As his fellow Musketeers, we have the right to know what sort of behavior we should avoid in the future.”

“He challenged a fellow Musketeer to a duel,” Belloq stated. “You know as well as I do that dueling is illegal.”

“With the _Red Guards_ ,” Porthos pointed out.

Belloq ignored him.

“He was training,” Aramis argued, his voice calm, tone soothing. “We have taught him to prepare as though he must survive any situation.”

Belloq pulled his chin up. “Then _you_ shall be the one to dole out his punishment.”

Aramis dropped his hand and straightened his stance. “No.”

The men standing around Belloq took a step back, as did Grisier and Bauer, releasing d’Artagnan’s arms. Athos took a breath, meeting d’Artagnan’s eyes for a brief second before turning to Belloq, who appeared to be quite close to exploding.

“Treville left you in charge for a reason,” Athos said calmly. “If you feel one of your men has acted erroneously, simply ensure the punishment fit the crime and the men will follow your lead. d’Artagnan does not deserve to be whipped for aggressive training.”

Belloq looked at Athos for a moment, then seemed to deflate. “He will be chained to the training post for twenty-four hours. No one will offer him food or water unless _I_ say.”

Athos lifted his chin as though in acceptance and watched as Belloq signaled to Grisier to ensure his orders were followed. Grisier took d’Artagnan’s arm and led him to the center post midst the training area, looped a chain through one of the metal eyelets that were fixed mid-level and were intended for use with securing musket targets, and wrapped the chain securely around d’Artagnan’s joined wrists. At that height, if d’Artagnan sat, his arms would be above his head.

As he left, Athos observed, Grisier dropped a comforting hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, earning a nod of understanding from the young man. Activity slowly resumed, and Athos approached the post, his eyes downcast.

“I am sorry about this,” he said sincerely.

“I can manage it,” d’Artagnan replied, his chin up, eyes level.

“We have a letter to deliver to the Cardinal,” Athos informed him. “We are supposed to follow whatever instructions the Cardinal gives us. Meaning, we could be away from the garrison for quite a while.”

At that, a sliver of uncertainty cut through d’Artagnan’s expression like quicksilver, but to his credit, he said nothing. Simply started resolutely back at Athos.

“If that is the case,” Athos glanced back at Aramis and Porthos, knowing that they would agree with him, “we may need to break you out of here rather quickly.”

d’Artagnan’s grin would forever be a light in his heart, Athos knew.

The young man visibly relaxed, his dark eyes taking all three of them in, and he nodded. Then lifted his chin a moment to draw their attention. As Athos watched, d’Artagnan craned his neck to the folds of shirt at his shoulder, moving his lips in the material like a horse reaching for grain. Before Athos could ask him just what the hell he was up to, he saw a small key appear and watched as d’Artagnan tucked it into the inside of his cheek with another grin.

“You’re a right wonder, you are,” Porthos chuckled.

“Grisier?” Aramis guessed.

d’Artagnan nodded. “He owed me after that incident with the Red Guard over on Rue Morse.”

“Every man in this company owes you,” Porthos declared. “They just got no idea they do.”

“Stay out of trouble,” Athos ordered, leaning closer. “And this time, I mean it.” On impulse, he rested his hand on the back of d’Artagnan’s neck, pulling the young man’s forehead close to his. “We’ll be back for you,” he said softly.

d’Artagnan nodded, straightening silently and meeting the eyes of each of the others. Athos turned from his young friend and noted that the Musketeers still in the garrison were looking their way. Sensing Aramis and Porthos flanking him, and creating an effective human wall between d’Artagnan and the rest of the garrison, Athos let his eyes roam the men and then rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. Slowly, the men nodded their acceptance and turned back to what they’d been working on, the message clear: d’Artagnan was one of them. He belonged; he was their brother.

And if anyone wanted to challenge that, they would have to contend with his protectors.


	3. Coup de main

It could have been worse.

It could have been summer, the sun beating down mercilessly, his already pressing thirst augmented by the oppressive heat. Summer in Gascony had been decidedly different from Paris. At home, the heat had been intense, but was managed by shade, cool cloths at the neck, and a swim in the river. Paris had simply been _hot_. Oppressive, suffocating, unrelenting. He would never have lasted against the post in the summer.

Paris in the autumn was wet. And the chill from the night air had not quite burned off by midday. If he were moving around, and with his jacket, he wouldn’t have been troubled by it. But the post was situated in a shaded area of the garrison courtyard and he was forced into immobility. Each brief gust of breeze had him suppressing a shiver, stamping his feet, drawing his bound arms close to his body.

As it was, he was struggling to simply not use the key Grisier had slipped him and get the hell out of there. He’d transferred the key from his cheek to his hand, curling it safely into a fist. After a couple hours of standing he’d begun to lean on the post, regretting having not grabbed breakfast before searching for his friends. His long night and little sleep, coupled with nothing to eat or drink since the previous evening, had him flagging more quickly than he knew he should have been.

The men of the regiment moved about their duties, training or cleaning weapons. When lunch was served, several of them glanced his way, almost apologetically. d’Artagnan eventually dropped to a crouch, trying to alleviate the ache in his calves and lower back.

He watched as Arnaud and Mathieu sparred, each man calling instructions to some of the new recruits. At one point, Arnaud caught his eye and d’Artagnan braced himself, wondering if a challenge would be made. But the man simply nodded at him, flicking his dagger in a brief salute.

By the time the evening meal was served, several of the men were petitioning Belloq to provide d’Artagnan with at least a skin of water. Belloq ignored their demands, retrieving his food and returning to Treville’s office with barely a glance spared in d’Artagnan’s direction. d’Artagnan was sure to stare directly at the man, defiance in every rigid line of his tired body.

It had been hours since he’d heard from Athos and he was beyond anxious, but knew that his friends would keep their promise. If it was in their power, they would not leave him behind. Eventually, he had given in and sat against the post, his arms suspended above his head. The blood flow was restricted and he felt his hands beginning to go numb. He was desperate to not drop that key. But he’d been standing all day….

When Grisier appeared before him, it startled d’Artagnan out of his reverie.

“Water,” Grisier whispered, holding a water skin down to him, helping him drink.

Some of it trickled down d’Artagnan’s chin due to the awkward angle, but he was able to get enough to finally calm the dragon of thirst inside him. He nodded his thanks as Grisier stepped back.

“Why?” d’Artagnan asked, surprised to hear how his voice rasped.

“Because you’re one of us,” Grisier smiled down at him. “And because I believe your brothers will be coming to fetch you soon and you’ll need your strength.”

d’Artagnan looked up at Grisier in the fading light. “Are _you_ not my brother?”

Grisier’s smile slipped a bit crooked. “Ah, lad,” he sighed. “We are all brothers here. But those three…,” he looked around the garrison quickly, checking to see if anyone else was watching, “…those three are different. They are…inseparable.” He looked down at d’Artagnan. “And you are one of them now.”

“Thank you for helping me,” d’Artagnan said, sincerely. “Aside from them, I don’t…I don’t have any other friends.”

Grisier nodded. “You’ll find, I think, that if offered the chance, many here would gladly stand by your side and be your friend.”

d’Artagnan smiled again and watched as Grisier dropped a bundled cloth in his lap.

“For later,” he whispered, then moved away.

d’Artagnan could smell bread in the cloth and his mouth instantly watered. He just needed to hang in there a bit longer. Once it reached twilight, he realized that his friends were waiting for the cover of night. They _had_ to be. Unless the Cardinal had them. Unless they’d been captured, imprisoned based on the knowledge the Cardinal had about Treville and Villers-Cotterêts. Unless….

“Oi! d’Artagnan!”

His head jerked up, a pain shooting down his neck from where the muscles had been stretched, and he looked wildly around. He hadn’t realized that he’d fallen asleep, but it was dark as pitch in the courtyard. He couldn’t find where Porthos’ voice had come from and held his breath, listening once more.

“On your left.”

He looked over. Porthos was still enough in the shadows that he could not make out his friend’s face, but he could detect his shape.

“Can you get the chains loose?”

d’Artagnan could no longer feel his hands. With a soft grunt of effort, he managed to make it to his knees, the bundle of cloth rolling from his lap to the ground. He hissed as what felt like thin lightning bolts began to shoot up his arms. The extreme discomfort of blood once more flowing back to his limbs had him biting the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning aloud. The primary thing he focused on was not losing his grip on the key: his hand was still curled into a fist, though his fingers were numb.

“C’mon, lad.”

“Can’t feel my arms,” d’Artagnan whispered back.

“Why did you sit down?”

“Why did you take _all day_ to return?” d’Artagnan retorted.

And like that, as if his thought conjured him, Porthos was beside him. After so long out in the cool air and elements, the warmth of a body near him was reassuring. He could smell the sweat and leather that was purely Porthos, and under it a tang of horse that said the man had been riding hard to get here.

“Right hand,” d’Artagnan breathed.

He felt Porthos pry his fingers open and retrieve the key. In moments, the chains were loose and Porthos was catching them before the clattered to the ground, lowering them slowly as d’Artagnan shook out his arms, desperately rubbing feeling back into his hands.

“Bread,” d’Artagnan whispered, nudging the cloth at his feet.

Saying nothing, Porthos scooped up the bundle, then grabbed him by the shirtfront and pulled him back into the shadows where d’Artagnan saw Aramis waiting with his jacket, pauldron, cloak, and weapons. Not bothering to feel ashamed, he allowed Aramis to help him with his clothes and weapons while he worked to get the ache from his joints and sensation back into his limbs. Once he was fully assembled, Porthos thrust the cloth bundle into his arms and they departed, d’Artagnan following closely behind while shoving the bread into his mouth.

Outside the garrison, d’Artagnan saw Athos waiting, holding three black horses – his having been saddled and prepped for him.

“How--?”

“Not now,” Athos said cryptically. “Let’s go.”

Finally able to use his hands properly again, d’Artagnan grasped the edge of his saddle and swung atop his mount without using the stirrups, gripping the horse’s flank with his legs as he followed his friends through the Paris streets at a trot. Night time in Paris was different depending on where one traveled. Some streets were utterly devoid of life, lights out in the windows, doors closed and latched, while others came to life with the moon and died with the sun.

Athos kept them to the former, and d’Artagnan kept his eyes pinned to the three men riding before him, their hats distinguishable in the dark, their shoulders square and straight. He felt his heart hammering against his ribs in anxious anticipation of the unknown. He tried to calm his breathing, to mirror the cool exterior his friends always seemed to exude, but he was rattled and no amount of controlled breathing was going to ease that. He needed to know what was happening.

 _At least they’d kept their promise_ , he thought. _At least they didn’t leave me behind_.

They rode for nearly half of an hour, the city behind them and a full moon high in a cold night sky, before Athos stopped, dismounting near a small thicket of trees. Aramis and Porthos followed suit. Sliding free from his horse, d’Artagnan found he had to grip the saddle for a few moments to grab his balance; the day in at the post with little water and no food after a night of scarce rest was catching up to him.

“d’Artagnan,” Athos called.

The young man gravitated to the voice, needing the reassurance of his brothers’ company. He nearly swayed when he saw that Athos had a hunk of bread, cold meat, and cheese wrapped loosely in another cloth bundle held out to him. Porthos took his horse’s reins and d’Artagnan wordlessly accepted the food, sinking to the ground next to the nearest tree and devouring it. Aramis held out a skin of water and d’Artagnan accepted it without looking up.

“We have news,” Athos said.

“I should hope so,” d’Artagnan said around a mouthful of bread. “You were gone long enough.”

He saw Porthos grin at that, but waited for more from Athos.

“Treville’s letter to the Cardinal apparently informed him what you’d feared: he has gone to Villers-Cotterêts to fulfill the Cardinal’s wishes.”

“Which were…what, exactly?” d’Artagnan asked. “Kill people?”

“Essentially, yes,” Athos replied, moving over to lean against the tree that d’Artagnan sat beneath.

Aramis and Porthos crouched down, the reins of their mounts in their hands. Porthos held d’Artagnan’s. They both looked up at Athos, the moonlight catching on the plains and curves of their faces giving them an ethereal appearance. d’Artagnan forced himself to pay attention as he ate.

“Treville hails from Villers-Cotterêts,” Athos said. “When he was there, an uprising against the King – Louis’ father – began. People were hungry, over-taxed, and no one felt the aristocracy had any idea what they were going through.”

“You don’t have to justify an uprising to me,” d’Artagnan informed him. “The whole reason I’m in Paris is because my father wanted to petition the King to consider lowering taxes on Gascony. There’s never enough.”

Porthos looked down, perhaps the only one of the three who could closely relate to d’Artagnan’s tale.

“Treville was a young man then,” Athos continued. “No older than you. He joined a brigade of soldiers with his brother and they participated in a skirmish against the King’s guard.”

d’Artagnan nearly choked on his bread. “What? But then how—“

“His brother changed their names, kept Treville’s participation secret,” Aramis broke in. “Most of the men from Villers-Cotterêts were killed or wounded. Those who were caught were hung. It was considered a peasant revolt, little more than a nick on the blade of the Monarchy.”

“But if that’s the case,” d’Artagnan frowned, “why is the Cardinal—“

“A survivors came forward,” Athos said. “He found the Cardinal, told his story, looking for recompense for years of suffering while Treville flourished as the Captain of the new King’s Musketeers.”

“And after what we did to him,” d’Artagnan realized, canting his head back against the tree behind him, “the Cardinal is willing to grant it. Especially if it gets Treville booted as our Captain.”

“I don’t care what the Cap’n was up to when he was a boy,” Porthos declared. “Man’s been nothing but honorable since I’ve known him. Saved my life.”

“Mine as well,” Aramis asserted. “Were it not for him seeing promise in me, I would have been a priest.”

“You’d make a terrible priest,” Porthos grumbled.

Aramis looked over at him, brow furrowed slightly.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Porthos lifted a hand. “There’s none ‘at match your faith, my friend. But when it comes to keeping yourself to yourself, well….”

Aramis glanced at d’Artagnan, who shrugged in helpless agreement.

“Not to mention there’s no one I’ve seen better at dispatching those who are in clear need of having a word or two with God,” d’Artagnan offered.

“True ‘nough,” Porthos agreed.

“There you have it,” Aramis said, opening his hand in a flourish to encompass both Porthos and d’Artagnan. “Treville saved me from a lifetime of priestly failure.”

“I owe the man my sanity,” Athos said quietly. “As the Comte de le Fére, my life was over when Thomas died. I would have happily joined him, but the Musketeers accept noblemen rather easily, it seems, and the little skill I had with a sword flourished under Treville.” He glanced over at his friends. “He saved my life as well.”

“We cannot let him suffer because of a choice made twenty years ago,” Aramis asserted. “For all we know, his only mistake was following his brother into the battle. It was the brother who altered their names after all.”

“There something I don’t understand,” d’Artagnan broke in. “Why does the Cardinal want Treville to kill the men at Villers-Cotterêts?”

“He has trapped the man in an impossible choice,” Athos declared. “If he is willing to silence the survivors to protect his position, the Cardinal can hold it over him forever. If he does not, the Cardinal can use his participation in the uprising to have him court martialed.”

d’Artagnan nodded, understanding. “So it isn’t simply about finding him,” he said. “It’s about stopping him from following through.”

“Exactly.”

d’Artagnan looked up at Athos, then over at where Porthos and Aramis were crouched. “What are we waiting for?”

“You do not have to join us,” Athos said. “You have a choice.”

d’Artagnan scrambled to his feet, feeling much more balanced after his meal and some water. “What? Of course I’m joining you!”

“I’m not saying you wouldn’t be welcome.” Athos turned his shoulder on the tree and held up a placating hand. “Just that you do not always have to throw your coin in the same pot as ours simply because we are doing it. You don’t owe the man as we do.”

d’Artagnan gave Athos a double take. “What are you talking about?”

“d’Artagnan—“ Aramis began, trying, as ever, to play peacemaker.

“No!” d’Artagnan snapped, holding out a finger to silence Aramis.

Clouds shifted over the moon, slipping them all into shadow for a moment, then moved across with the growing wind, inadvertently illuminating d’Artagnan with a brilliant beam of light as he stepped back, his words taking them all in. His heart beat hard once more; he could feel it rattle the bones in his chest and choke his voice until it was thin and breathless, his words no less powerful. He saw their eyes upon him, but was too wrapped up in what he was saying to register their expressions.

“I owe him _everything_ ,” d’Artagnan declared. “If it weren’t for Treville, nothing Athos or you, or Porthos would have said or done in my defense of my worth would have mattered. I would be nothing but an orphaned farm boy from Gascony. No home, no family, nothing to my name save a sword my father fashioned for me and a horse that had always been more comfortable behind a plow.” He swallowed, feeling the pounding of his heart stutter until he was shivering a bit inside.

“When I came to Paris a year ago, I had _nothing_. Not even hope.” He looked at Athos, needing him to believe what he said, deathly afraid they would leave him behind. “I fully expected you to kill me in our duel. I…I _wanted_ you to.”

He looked away at this confession, toward the darkness of the thicket of trees. He heard their feet shift, their breath draw in, but could not face them. He’d never admitted this truth before – not even to himself.

“I failed my father,” he said quietly. “And I wanted to die avenging his death, but then it…,” he caught his breath and forced his voice out through the invisible grip around his throat, “wasn’t Athos. And all I could think about was _killing_ the man who’d killed my father.”

“d’Artagnan—“ Aramis started again, his voice soft, but Athos put a hand on his arm and the three were quiet once more.

“Once Gaudet was dead and Athos was saved…I had nowhere to go. I couldn’t return home…not without him. There was no one waiting for me, and I never…,” he looked down at his hands, the moonlight dancing over the olive skin, the creases in his palms, the callouses built up from hours and hours of sword practice. “I never belonged there. Not sure I’ve really belonged anywhere.”

He took a breath and looked once more at his three friends. “Treville allowed me to stay. With you. To train and learn and…I had nothing and he didn’t let that matter. He gave me a chance – a chance at _life_. When truly my only other recourse was to find a path to the end of the sword.”

After a moment where the only sound were the calls of the night animals, Athos reached out and laid a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, squeezing it.

“We are glad to have you,” he said quietly.

“Jus’ so long as you do the jobs we don’t like so much,” Porthos interjected.

“And _completely_ avoid getting yourself hurt,” Aramis added.

d’Artagnan gave them a relieved smile. “I’ll do my best.”

Athos nodded, then outlined the plan, which involved, unfortunately, riding through the night to Villers-Cotterêts before the real fun started. d’Artagnan listened closely, forcing himself to memorize Athos’ words, believing that even if the plan failed completely, a memory of the original intention of each step could save his life.

“What was it the Cardinal wanted you to do?” d’Artagnan asked as they mounted up once more.

Athos looked over at him, then looked away, kicking his horse into a canter. d’Artagnan looked at Aramis, who shook his head.

“What? What was in the letter?” d’Artagnan pressed.

Aramis sighed. “I don’t know what the letter stated, exactly, but however it was worded, the Cardinal ordered us to kill Treville.”

“ _What?_ ”

Aramis kicked his horse forward, followed closely by Porthos. Not to be left behind, d’Artagnan followed in quick succession, wondering how they could possibly come out of this one on top. If they saved Treville and the men of Villers-Cotterêts, the Cardinal would know they’d disregarded his order. But honor offered no quarter and their mission was extremely clear. It was the outcome he was still a bit murky on.

They rode into the night, shifting their horses from a walk to a canter to keep them from wearing out. The silence among his comrades made it difficult for d’Artagnan to stay alert as they rested their horses and on more than one occasion found himself jerking to wakefulness just before he slid from his horse. After the third such occasion, he dismounted when they walked the horses and walked alongside him.

“What are doing?” Aramis questioned.

“Avoiding embarrassment,” d’Artagnan replied. “Better this than go to sleep and fall off.”

“No more nights in the livery,” Athos ordered.

d’Artagnan was quiet. There was no way he could explain to someone like Athos how out of control the loneliness and fear that hit him during the nights when the rains came made him feel. Athos, for all his moroseness and melancholy, for all his love of wine, was always completely in control. And he would not empathize.

“Porthos,” d’Artagnan said, in need of noise to distract him from exhaustion. “You said Treville saved your life.”

“’at he did.”

“How?”

Porthos shifted in his saddle, tilting his head just right so that the moonlight hit the scar that ran from his hairline to below his eye, miraculously missing the orb itself.

“I ever tell you how I got this?”

d’Artagnan shook his head.

“You knew I grew up in the Court,” Porthos asserted. Off of d’Artagnan’s nod he continued. “I survived ‘bout twenty or so years on the streets. Not real sure. No idea when I was born, so I’m just guessing how old I really am. Could be I’m as old as our Athos ‘ere.”

“Careful,” Athos cautioned, his amusement evident even in that one word.

“Anyway, I knew I needed more than what I’d be able to get from that life. If I didn’t get out, I was going to suffocate or find myself on the wrong end of a dagger sooner rather than later.”

d’Artagnan didn’t miss the way Aramis frowned, looking over at Porthos as the big man continued his story.

“I was making a living as a card shark – not a very good one, I’ll grant ya – and a man came into the tavern announcing openings for recruits. The Musketeers had taken a big hit in ranks and they needed more able-bodied men.”

“Savoy?” d’Artagnan guessed.

“No,” Porthos shook his head. “I was commissioned by that time. Could’ve been at the camp with Aramis if I’d got the orders.”

d’Artagnan nodded, realizing belatedly that Aramis’ dependency on his brothers would have stemmed from having already placed his trust in them prior to the massacre.

“Recruiting had just hit a low,” Porthos explained. “Happens. Noblemen don’t always want their sons playin’ soldier.”

“Was the man Treville?” d’Artagnan asked. “The one who came into the tavern?”

“’e was,” Porthos nodded. “I followed ‘im out of the tavern, thinking I would see what was all involved, and I saw two men approaching him.”

“Thieves?”

Porthos shrugged. “Never found out. They attacked, I got in the middle, an’ this happened,” he pointed to his eye. “Treville took me back to the garrison, fixed up my face, then put a sword in my hand.”

“Sounds more like you saved him,” d’Artagnan pointed out.

“That’s just it,” Porthos clarified. “He could’ve fixed my wound and sent me on my way, but he listened to me, my story. He knew I wasn’t going to be able to bring the same to the table as some others, an’ he gave me a purpose. A reason.”

d’Artagnan nodded, thinking. “When did you meet these two?”

Aramis grinned. “We met the same day.”

“That he was wounded?”

“Who do you think stitched him up?”

d’Artagnan smiled. “Did you have to punch him?”

“That was prior to having learned that little trick,” Aramis said. “We both met Athos a few weeks before Savoy.”

“Mount up,” Athos said. “We need to be moving.”

The ride took the rest of the night and through the early morning hours. d’Artagnan wasn’t able to keep his eyes open and found himself slumping forward in his saddle, weaving dangerously at different moments. To his great surprise, each time he forced himself back to wakefulness, one of his friends was riding beside him, a hand fisted in his jacket sleeve, keeping him astride his horse.

The morning light cresting the sky at their backs brought a new level of wakefulness and when the sun breached the horizon, bringing with it a warmth that seeped deliciously into his bones, d’Artagnan felt a surge of energy, his heavy eyes and weariness falling to the wayside.

“How do we know where Treville is?” he asked as they entered the small village of Villers-Cotterêts.

“That’s the tricky part,” Aramis confessed. “We actually…don’t.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic.”

“But we do know the name of someone who might know where he is,” Porthos offered.

“Our luck it’s probably the traitor who contacted the Cardinal,” d’Artagnan mumbled. He caught the look passed between Aramis and Porthos. “Hang on, you can’t be serious.”

“We don’t know the name of the traitor, either,” Aramis confessed. “So…there’s always that chance.”

“Let me do the talking,” Athos interjected.

“That makes me feel much better,” d’Artagnan grumbled. “The man who is practically a functioning mute will do our talking for us.”

Porthos chuckled and Athos arched an eyebrow in d’Artagnan’s direction.

“Why don’t you go find us some food?” Athos suggested, the warning in his tone softened by the small smile that tipped the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll join him,” Aramis volunteered.

“Meet at the square in an hour?” Porthos asked, earning a nod of assessment from Aramis.

They separated and Aramis and d’Artagnan soon found an open tavern. Dismounting, their legs and buttocks sore from so many hours of riding, they stretched for a moment before heading inside. There were several empty tables and once they secured one, Aramis immediately smiled at the matronly hostess, asking if they could have a basket prepared with food to take back to their friends.

As Aramis charmed his way to their food, d’Artagnan’s attention was grabbed by the conversation at a table just down from theirs. One about a man named Bellamy who was looking after someone called Jean-Armand.

“Aramis,” he whispered urgently, his tone pitched almost too low for his friend to hear. When Aramis leaned close, d’Artagnan continued. “Isn’t Treville’s given name Jean-Armand?”

Aramis lifted his chin in agreement and moved to tune in to the conversation as well. d’Artagnan was able to determine only that Jean-Armand was wounded, and that Bellamy was keeping three others with him, prisoner. The men conversing were planning their approach to rescue the imprisoned men. So focused was he on trying to find out the location of their attack, d’Artagnan didn’t notice when their basket of food arrived and nearly fell from his chair, startled.

“Bit on edge, that one,” the hostess commented. “Might want to add some wine to the mix wi’ ‘im.”

Aramis smiled in agreement and kissed the back of her hand before leading d’Artagnan from the tavern.

“We must find Athos,” Aramis said urgently.

“And tell him what? We don’t even know where they are holding Treville!” d’Artagnan bemoaned.

“Not true,” Aramis corrected. “Did you not hear them speak of the Château de Beynac?”

d’Artagnan shook his head. “Guess I missed that part.”

“It’s an old castle, set up on a hill, well-fortified. It used to be a fort for the King, years ago…now it’s practically in ruins as no one has seen fit to care for it once the former owners were all killed off in different uprisings.”

“This place is rich with rebellion,” d’Artagnan grunted as he swung up on his horse, wheeling his mount around and following Aramis to the square.

They had only a few moments to wait before Athos and Porthos joined them.

“We have news,” all four said at once.

Aramis drew back. “You first.”

“Treville has been wounded,” Athos informed them. “He was discovered almost immediately upon his arrival – by his brother, no less – and taken prisoner.”

“We know,” d’Artagnan smiled, feeling slightly smug that he was able to add something to the intrigue. “He’s at the Château de Beynac.”

“North of the village,” Aramis supplied off of Athos’ questioning look.

“Wait, did you say his brother still lives?” d’Artagnan asked.

“He’s going by the name of Armistead,” Athos replied. “He’s a well-respected figure in the village after his attempt at, as they put it, usurping the King.”

d’Artagnan looked at Aramis. “You think Armistead is one of the men being held prisoner?”

“Stands to reason,” Aramis agreed.

“Hang on, prisoner?” Porthos questioned.

Aramis filled them in about what had been overheard in the tavern.

“We must get to that Château,” Athos asserted. “If these villagers get there first, this Bellamy fellow will not be able to protect Treville, let alone himself.”

“We are going to need more weapons,” Porthos grumbled.

“I...uh.” d’Artagnan felt suddenly insecure. “I believe I know where we might be able to get some.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to stare at him questioningly.

“In Lupiac,” he began, “the blacksmith also fashioned weapons. He used to have a storeroom full of them.”

Aramis’ eyebrows bounced to his hairline. “I cannot believe the thought never occurred to me before.”

“Well done, d’Artagnan,” Porthos complemented him.

“Don’t throw me a parade just yet,” d’Artagnan said. “Gascony is not, unfortunately, Picardy.”

“Aramis,” Athos ordered, his voice clipped with purpose. “You stay here and mind the horses. You two,” he looked at Porthos and d’Artagnan, “come with me.”

They dismounted and followed Athos down the narrow side streets of the small village until they came across the blacksmith shop. Athos turned to d’Artagnan, asking him to approach the man and find a way to explain what was needed. d’Artagnan looked at his friend incredulously for a moment, then took a breath, bracing himself. It was simply another role to play, that was all.

“You have a dependable, earnest face,” Athos informed him. “You appear trustworthy.”

“If that’s your way of saying I look too young to yet grow a beard, you could have just said that.”

“I was merely attempting to be encouraging,” Athos said, tilting his head in acquiescence. “But know this,” he continued, taking d’Artagnan by the arm, his blue eyes serious. “Without these weapons, we have very little chance of saving Treville.”

_Charles, you must listen closely._

d’Artagnan suppressed a shiver, nodding and turning toward the entrance of the blacksmith shop. As he walked away, he heard Porthos mutter.

“You really know how to apply the pressure.”

“Some people are spurred to action when under pressure,” Athos replied. “d’Artagnan, if you haven’t yet noticed, is one of those.”

Feeling strangely buoyed by the fact that Athos had been watching him closely enough to make such an assessment, d’Artagnan entered the blacksmith shop. He was surprised to find it manned only by a young man around his age, soot staining his cheeks and finger tips, angry red welts on his arms, a heavy leather apron weighing him down. He was clearly an apprentice, but d’Artagnan addressed him as if he owned the business.

d’Artagnan took a chance and introduced himself as a Musketeer, his cloak pushed back to expose his pauldron. He said they were on a mission from the King and had been set upon by bandits, their spare weapons stolen.

“Pro’ly Armistead’s men,” the apprentice guessed. “’eard they was at it again.”

“It?”

“Every few years they think they’re going to go kill the King or some such,” the apprentice shrugged, compressing air into the glowing coals in the kiln next to d’Artagnan with a pump of his arm. “All I know is, they make life ‘ell for the rest of us.”

“I see,” d’Artagnan nodded. “I don’t suppose they left you with many spare weapons after their last…raid?”

The apprentice smiled and d’Artagnan noticed a few missing teeth. “I has me a stash, no one knows ‘bout.”

“We would pay you for what we took,” d’Artagnan further enticed.

“You take out Armistead, that’s payment plenty,” the young man replied, then paused, tilting his head. “’Course, I won’t say _no_ to coin.”

d’Artagnan whistled shrilly and in moments Athos and Porthos stepped through the door. The apprentice’s eyes widened at the sight of them, lingering overly long on Porthos in a mixture of trepidation and admiration. After handing him a bag of 20 sous, d’Artagnan encouraged the apprentice to lead them to his stash of weapons.

“Two muskets,” Porthos muttered, taking mental stock. “Four more daggers and harquebuses. Ah, what’s this? Bombs?”

“No bombs,” Athos snapped.

“Sure could be useful when trying to create a distraction,” Porthos interjected.

“We are attempting stealth, Porthos,” Athos pointed out. “Bombs are the exact _opposite_ of stealth.”

Porthos lifted his hands in surrender. “Just saying bombs might be nice.”

As the other men loaded up on additional weaponry, d’Artagnan spoke with the apprentice about the Château’s location and any weaknesses he knew of, which weren’t many. Once properly equipped, Athos and Porthos thanked the lad and headed out to the street.

“I must ask you not to say anything. Not to anyone,” d’Artagnan implored. “My friend’s lives depend on absolute secrecy.”

“They’ll not get a word out o’ me.”

“I am most appreciative of your help,” d’Artagnan told the lad earnestly. “You will be remembered.”

The apprentice gave d’Artagnan a lopsided smile. “If ‘at’s the truth of it, I’d rather be remembered a legend than a nightmare.”

Lifting his chin at the turn of phrase, d’Artagnan turned to follow Athos and Porthos through the streets of the village and back to where Aramis waited in the shadows of the tavern with the horses.

“It looks like we’re preparing for a war, not a rescue mission,” Aramis commented, helping to load the acquired weapons to their saddles.

“It may very well become that,” Athos replied, turning to face them, his blue eyes utterly serious. “My friends, we have been through battles, and against insurmountable odds,” he said, his voice pitched low and serious, “but never has it been so vital that we succeed. We all accept that our Captain’s life depends on us, but I fear our very way of life – the way of the Musketeers – is caught in the balance of this.”

“Lose Treville, we lose the Musketeers,” Aramis agreed. “I don’t believe I want to live with that reality.”

“Me neither,” Porthos chimed in.

d’Artagnan merely nodded, unable to order his voice to cooperate.

“We are agreed, then,” Athos stated.

Porthos was the first to place his hand toward the center of their inadvertent circle, creating the spoke of the wheel that united them. Once all four hands were placed, they looked up, silently regarding each other.

“All for one; one for all,” d’Artagnan whispered the pledge that had resonated in his heart from the moment the other men had uttered it.

Lowering their hands, they led their horses out of the confines of the village toward the Château, not wanting to draw attention by riding out. Once free of the buildings, they mounted up and continued until they reached the edge of the property, outlined by a rough river bed and outcropping of rock, framed by thickets of trees. Tying the horses to the trees and removing their weapons and saddle bags, they made a make-shift camp, sans fire.

“We must wait until the cover of dark,” Athos declare, his tone betraying how much he hated knowing his Captain was mere yards from him, wounded, and he wasn’t charging in there after him. “d’Artagnan,” he said suddenly, surprising the young man. “Why are you rubbing at your hands like that?”

Caught unaware, d’Artagnan looked down at his clasped hands, just then realizing that he was practically wringing them to try to rid them of the still-present ache from his bonds.

“I…didn’t realize—“

“From the chains, yeah?” Porthos guessed. “Had my hands trussed up above my ‘ead once,” he explained. “Took near three days for them to feel right again.”

“It’s not your hands,” Aramis interjected, tugging on d’Artagnan’s sleeve, pulling him down to sit cross-legged on the ground next to him. “It’s your shoulders. That’s where the blood flow was interrupted.”

To d’Artagnan’s utter amazement, Porthos and Athos began to set up camp, bringing out food and water from the saddlebags and caring for their mounts, while Aramis helped him remove his pauldron and jacket. He sat in front of his friend as Aramis placed one hand inside d’Artagnan’s loose shirt, against his clavicle, and the other on the outside of his shirt, against the backside of his shoulder.

“This may…pinch a little,” Aramis warned.

Before d’Artagnan could reply that he could handle it, Aramis twisted his hands, cracking the joint and pressing against the muscle to the point d’Artagnan gasp sharply in retaliation of the liquid fire that immediately spread from this shoulder to his fingertips, then promptly abated.

“ _OW!!_.”

“I did warn you.”

“That was more than a pinch!”

“I may have underestimated the pain level a tad.”

“What did you do?”

Aramis shifted behind him to the opposite shoulder. “I simply manipulated your muscles back into their intended position – one that your captivity shifted them from. It’s a technique, incidentally, I learned from – are you ready?”

d’Artagnan had little more than registered that Aramis’ hands were once more on his skin before the twist was applied to his other shoulder, pain blossoming hot and then dying just as quickly. He barely had time to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out.

“—I learned from the Baroness de le Roche,” Aramis continued without missing a beat. “The same woman who nearly got me disowned.”

“You were disowned?” d’Artagnan asked in a strangled voice, helplessly clenching and unclenching his hands, relishing the feel of being able to do so without pins and needles.

“ _Nearly_ ,” Aramis corrected. “It’s an important distinction.”

Porthos dropped down next to d’Artagnan, handing him a bit of food and water, then leaned back on his elbow. Athos positioned himself as look-out, the lowering sun turning his profile into a grayish shadow. d’Artagnan looked back at Aramis, waiting for him to continue.

“The Baroness had quite the amorous appetite,” Aramis said, his lips twisting into an amused smirk. “I thought myself experienced prior to meeting her, but I was a fool.”

“Surely she can’t be the one who broke your heart.” d’Artagnan spoke without thinking.

Aramis covered his surprise with a bite of bread. “I don’t take your meaning.”

“Nothing. Never mind,” d’Artagnan waved his hand. “Continue.”

“She enjoyed being bound,” Aramis revealed, earning him a side-long glance from Athos. “And binding her lovers in turn.”

“She…tied you up?” d’Artagnan asked, incredulous. “And you _let_ her?”

“She was a very beautiful woman,” Aramis said in his own defense. “At any rate, my father discovered our…tryst, and threatened to disown me if I did not join the priesthood. As we’ve already covered,” he nodded at Porthos, who lifted his cup in salute, “I would have made a terrible priest.”

“How did you get out of that one?” d’Artagnan asked.

“I bought a sword,” Aramis replied.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I bought a sword, with the full intent to challenge my father to a duel, the result of which would either be my death of my freedom.”

d’Artagnan sat forward. “You were prepared to…duel your…your _father_?”

Aramis offered him a sad smile. “My father was a decent man. Made an amazing honey wine, but he had very specific ideas about right and wrong.” He shrugged. “I did not fit into his vision of right.” He spread his hands. “I was young, impulsive, angry….”

“Horny,” Porthos added helpfully.

Aramis nodded his head in his friend’s direction. “I don’t believe I ever would have actually challenged my father, but we’ll never know because Treville saw me buy that sword, told me I had an excellent eye for metal work. I told him he should see me shoot.” Aramis smiled at the memory. “He took me up on it and I hit the center point of every target he set up. I’d always been an excellent shot. He offered me the chance that day to train to become a Musketeer and my salvation was found.”

d’Artagnan leaned back against the tree, his shoulder touching Porthos’. “So you learned the trick with the shoulder from the Baroness, then?”

“Indeed,” Aramis nodded. “Came in handy after—“

“I believe we get the general idea,” Athos interjected.

Aramis grinned and continue to eat.

“Get some rest, gentlemen,” Athos ordered. “Especially you, d’Artagnan. We have a long night ahead of us.”

d’Artagnan slouched a bit against the tree, feeling his body tick down from the daylight rush of adrenaline.

“Aramis?” he called.

“Mmm?”

“Does your father still live?”

Aramis sighed. “No, I am sorry to say. He passed the year after I received my commission.”

“Was he pleased with your choice?”

“Pleased? No. But he did accept it in the end. When we last parted, it was with mutual respect.”

d’Artagnan nodded, thinking that Porthos had never known his father, and Athos’ father remained a complete mystery to him.

“The wonder of it is,” Aramis said, a small, sad smile on his face. “I miss him. I honestly never thought I’d say that after all our years of struggles, but I do. I miss him.”

With those words, d’Artagnan closed his eyes, trying to follow Athos’ orders and rest while he could, but he felt too wired. They hadn’t yet even found Treville and he was already overloaded with information and possibilities and it was more than just a plot to trap the Cardinal and Milady. It was more than just fooling a few people into thinking he’d been abandoned by his brothers. It was more than being shot by a man he considered one of his best friends.

It was the chance to save his father all over again. To hear the shots and turn and run toward the Inn, rather than fight the men in the barn. To not take so long stabling the horses. To not have lingered, wanting to stay warm just another moment. To not have been too distracted with the fight to even notice the blood on his father’s chest. To not be left kneeling in the rain, blood pooling around him, holding onto the man who had first held him, who had carried him, protected him, taught him, shielded him.

“d’Artagnan!”

The voice was urgent, but wrong. The _name_ was wrong. His father called him Charles. _Charles, you must listen._

“Wake up, lad!”

At that, his eyes opened to darkness and confusion and it wasn’t until a hand gripped his that he realized his breath was hammering from his lips as though he’d run for miles. Blinking, he registered the darkness was not quite complete: it was broken by moonlight once more filtering through the trees and illuminating the profile of the man hovering over him.

“Porthos?”

“You with me?” Porthos’ breath hovered between them in a visible cloud.

d’Artagnan pushed himself upright, slowly, registering that someone had covered him with his cloak and he’d been lying on the ground next to Porthos, Aramis and Athos across the way, both looking in their direction.

“I am sorry,” he muttered, forcing himself to disengage his hand from Porthos’ tight grip. “I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep.”

“You were exhausted,” Athos stated. “You needed it.”

“Probably could have done without the nightmare, though,” Aramis offered with a shrug.

It _had_ been a nightmare. And he could still see it clearly if he closed his eyes. His father falling to his knees, collapsing in d’Artagnan’s arms, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, starving for air. d’Artagnan dragged his hand down his face, forcing himself to banish the memory.

“Is it time?”

“Very nearly,” Athos replied.

d’Artagnan pushed to his feet, stepping away several yards to relieve himself, then returning to the group. They had planned to arm up, leave the horses where they’d camped in the trees, and enter the Château at the servant’s quarter entrance toward the back. Without any idea where Treville was being kept, it seemed as good a plan as any.

“What are we waiting for?” d’Artagnan asked, strapping on his weapons.

His three companions were staring toward their target, expressions grim in the moonlight. He could see a muscle along Aramis’ jaw flexing as if the man were gritting his teeth.

“A miracle,” Aramis replied, his eyes trained on the Château.

Frowning, d’Artagnan looked toward stone structure, blinking in surprise to see roughly a dozen men milling about the entrance, torches in hand.

“Where did they come from?”

“Best guess? Our friend the blacksmith,” Porthos replied.

“No,” d’Artagnan breathed. “He swore secrecy! He had such a good parting line about it, too.”

“From what we’ve been able to hear, it appears as though they have come to rescue Armistead,” Athos stated, his eyes pinned to the crowd.

Aramis glanced at d’Artagnan. “The men in the tavern.”

“And as far as we know, Bellamy has Armistead and two others imprisoned while simultaneously protecting Treville,” d’Artagnan remembered.

“Indeed,” Athos replied. “I’m open to ideas.”

“I’m leaning toward blind panic myself,” Aramis replied, glancing back at Porthos and d’Artagnan. “You?”

“Too bad we don’t have any _bombs_ we could use to scatter the crowd,” Porthos remarked with forced casualness.

Athos shot him a glare. “Should we make it out of here alive, I will purchase your weight in bombs.”

“’m holdin’ ya to that.” Porthos growled as he looked back at the crowd.

“Why can we not stick to the original plan?” d’Artagnan inquired. “They’re at the front; we had always planned on heading to the back entrance.”

“Lad makes a good point,” Porthos muttered.

“How do we get to the back without being seen?” Aramis inquired. “The moonlight is not our ally.”

d’Artagnan frowned, thinking. “Distraction.”

“What was that?” Athos looked at him.

“What was that?” Aramis and Porthos echoed in unison.

“We create a distraction!” d’Artagnan repeated. “We send one of the horses running toward the front and while they are trying to figure out where it is going and where it came from, we cut through the trees to the back entrance.”

“That just might work,” Athos muttered, studying their horses.

“Always the tone of surprise,” d’Artagnan sighed, earning a grin from Aramis.

“How do you suggest we keep ‘im running straight at danger?” Porthos asked.

d’Artagnan joined Athos in studying their horses. “We use Aramis’ mount. He’s the most skittish. And we fashion a flash from the powder for the muskets to scare him into scattering.”

Aramis tilted his head as he studied d’Artagnan. “And when we rescue Treville? How do we escape on just three horses?”

“I don’t know,” d’Artagnan huffed. “I’m making this up as I go!”

Aramis grinned. “I just wanted to hear you say it. Helps my ego.”

“We go with d’Artagnan’s plan,” Athos said decisively. “Get the horse ready.”

It didn’t take them long to put the horse into position and secure the other three. Fashioning the flash in such a way to scare one horse and not blow themselves up required a bit of guesswork, but Porthos was able to finally complete the preparation. They each took a moment to ensure the weapons they’d purchased were loaded and strapped within arm’s reach. d’Artagnan opted for an extra harquebus and dagger rather than the awkwardly heavy musket.

He couldn’t fire the larger weapon accurately anyway. Aramis carried both; they all knew that the moment he was able to get into firing range and prop up the barrel, he would be deadly. Porthos and Athos each carried extra powder horns and shots, and all were armed with their own weapons.

Athos looked silently at each man in turn, his eyes offering them the encouragement each needed. He nodded one last time and then lit the flash, creating a quick, loud popping sound that effectively scattered Aramis’ horse in the direction of the Château’s entrance.

As the horse ran one way, the Musketeers ran the other. In moments, and without the added weight of a musket, d’Artagnan found himself well ahead of his friends, reaching the servant’s entrance several seconds before Aramis, then Athos, then Porthos. He pushed his way inside and they paused for a moment catching their breath.

“You are insanely fast,” Porthos panted. “Remind me never to race you to dinner.”

“Everyone has to have a skill,” d’Artagnan replied, readying both his rapier and his harquebus as Athos led the way from the servant’s kitchen up into the depths of the abandoned Château.


	4. Debellatio

Preparing for a battle offered a decidedly different level of stress than actually participating in the battle. Athos found he had the confidence required to convince his men to follow him into the fray; it was knowing what could – and often times _would_ – happen to them the moment shots were fired and metal clashed that sent his skin into icy shivers and directed an iron-clad grip around his heart.

For Athos himself, the risk was irrelevant. For years – since Thomas, since Anne – battle of any kind was simply an opportunity for him to receive the punishment he believed he deserved. He would never admit it, not aloud, but he went into battle with part of his intent simply being to get hurt.

He wanted to feel the pain and through that pain, find some kind of absolution, some sort of attrition and forgiveness. Perhaps through that struggle he could find peace. Perhaps he could smile as honestly as d’Artagnan, he could love as completely as Aramis, he could give of himself as wholly as Porthos.

Perhaps be could be a person again, one who was more than a soldier.

Then Anne had revealed the truth he’d known to be lurking in the shadows of his heart: _There will be no peace for either of us until we are both dead_. Yet despite that, he’d let her go, let her live. Walked away from her with one heartbeat of hope that the men he’d aligned himself with would show him a path he could follow, leading to a peace he could embrace.

With everything in him, Athos knew he would protect those men. He would protect them with his own life if called to do so.

He stepped into the lead, drawing his harquebus as they moved silently from the servant’s entrance through the dusty back corridors of the abandoned Château. The passage way held the dimmest light, filtered in, he saw, from high, narrow windows scattered along the length of the corridor. He found himself holding his breath, listening for movement, for voices – any indication that they were either close to Treville or to danger.

The breathing of his comrades was harsh, but subdued. Athos could practically feel tension and nerves rolling from them, knowing each was as on-guard as he. They came across a split, one path leading to a narrow stairs, the other down a longer corridor. It was too dark to see where it led. He looked back at his men.

“If it was me,” Porthos said, his voice a quiet rumble, “I’d take the high ground. Make ‘em come up to me through the narrowest passage.”

Athos held the darker man’s eyes a moment. Porthos may not have been brought up a gentleman or been schooled in the history of battle and tactics, but he had unmatched survival skills. Athos nodded and started up the stairs, tensing as he saw the soft glow of torchlight. He pressed back against the stone wall, and saw that the men fell in, aligning their bodies with his. If Bellamy had been able to keep Armistead and his men prisoner this long, Athos knew they had to be cautious so as not to fire on a potential ally – and their Captain’s only protector.

Looking down the line of his men, Athos met Aramis’ eyes and nodded. Without needing the vocal order, Aramis knew what to do. He moved up through the narrow stairwell, past Athos, until he reached the top. Athos could see the marksman stretch out on the stairs, laying the barrel of the heavy musket on the top stair and training it on the open corridor, the spare weapon next to him.

Athos nodded down to Porthos who moved into position to flank Aramis, ready to provide him with reloaded weapons if needs be. Feeling d’Artagnan draw close at his back, Athos moved forward, stepping carefully over his friends, and pressed back against the corridor as he moved into the opening, d’Artagnan by his side. A small door, lit from behind with the yellowed light from a fire or torches, was at one end of the hall. The other direction was completely dark, not even one window. It was impossible for Athos to see how far it went.

He glanced quickly at d’Artagnan and saw that the young man was ready for his order, weapons up.

“Bellamy!” Athos called. “My name is Athos of the King’s Musketeers. You have my Captain.”

The first shot came from the darkness, cutting the air just across Athos’ chest. The burst of fire from the weapon exposed the shooter and a heartbeat later, Aramis had returned fire, knocking the weapon from their erstwhile attacker’s grip with a cry of surprise. Seamlessly, Porthos took the empty musket and handed Aramis a loaded one, the deadly barrel now trained down the dark hall.

“Come out,” Athos ordered.

A tall, painfully thin man emerged from the shadows, holding his hand. He was older than Athos by at least a decade, if not more, and was clearly weary and disheveled, but his clothes and bearing marked him as a gentleman and his beard was neatly trimmed.

“Bellamy?”

“I am François Bellamy, yes,” the man replied, his voice the low rasp of one who has seen too many wars. “You are Athos?”

Athos nodded, then gestured to the other men. “My comrades, also in Captain Treville’s regiment.”

“Jean-Armand said you would come,” Bellamy sighed, sagging in evident relief. “When I saw those other men arrive, I thought the worst.”

“Is he alive?” Athos could not keep the fear from seizing the edge of his words and pulling them taut.

“He is, though he needs help,” Bellamy said, moving past the opening as Aramis and Porthos got to their feet. “And I know Claude will not stay contained much longer.”

“Claude?” d’Artagnan asked. Athos was surprised the young man had stayed quiet this long. When there were more questions than answers, d’Artagnan was usually the first one to speak up.

Bellamy glanced back at them. “Claude du Peyer,” he said. “Jean-Armand’s brother. You probably know him as Armistead.”

Athos blinked, exchanging a shocked look with d’Artagnan. Treville’s brother was not only still alive, but was the leader of the latest resistance. Had he been the one to contact the Cardinal?

“He didn’t shoot Jean-Armand,” Bellamy was saying as he worked an old key into the lock of the door at the end of the hall, “but he certainly didn’t stop Bélanger from doing so.”

Before d’Artagnan could question yet another new name, Athos held up his hand, watching as the young man closed his mouth and waited until they had been led inside the room at the end of the hall. Athos closed the door behind them. It was larger than he’d anticipated. A bed was pushed off into the corner, Treville asleep upon it. Two larger windows flanked one wall while the other was covered by a massive stone fireplace, a fire burning brightly within and warding off the chill in the room.

A rough-hewn table and two chairs sat opposite the bed and Athos saw two harquebuses lying next to a knife and a dagger, which he recognized as Treville’s. Porthos immediately crossed to one of the opened windows and propped up a musket, looking out at the situation below. Aramis and d’Artagnan moved to the small bed in the corner where Treville lay, his head wrapped in a bloody bandage.

“Aramis?” Athos asked, seeing his Captain breathing, but needing Aramis to confirm he was alive.

“He’s alive. Just unconscious,” Aramis replied, setting down his weapons and pulling off his gloves. He looked over at Bellamy. “A graze?”

Bellamy nodded. “Deep. Has not completely stopped bleeding.”

“Has he been awake at all?”

Bellamy nodded again. “Mostly coherent. Told me he’d sent for you, though I do not know how.”

“d’Artagnan, help Porthos,” Athos ordered, then moved to stand behind Aramis as his friend carefully removed the bandage from around Treville’s head, inspecting the wound. “He wrote a letter to the Cardinal, informing him that he’d won. He knew the Cardinal wouldn’t be satisfied with that and would send us after him to kill him.”

d’Artagnan looked over from his post at a window next to Porthos. “How could the Cardinal possibly think you would agree to such an order?”

It was clear the young man had been chewing on this question for some time. Aramis glanced over his shoulder at Athos and then returned to his ministrations. Athos swallowed, then regarded d’Artagnan solemnly. The Gascon was tenacious. Order or no order, he would not relent until he had an answer that satisfied him, even if he had to bring it up time and again.

“The Cardinal has information that puts us at risk,” Athos replied. “That is all you need to know.”

d’Artagnan tilted his head, his hair falling across his brow, for all the world looking much like the pup the other men in the regiment teased about. “But what—“

Porthos lay a hand on d’Artagnan’s arm, drawing the young man’s attention. With one shake of his head, Porthos effectively quieted him. For now.

“Someone betrayed Treville,” Aramis said in a hard voice, one that Athos rarely heard him use. “Was it Armistead?”

“No,” Bellamy replied, sounding as exhausted as he appeared. He sat slowly on the chair. “No, but it doesn’t matter.”

“Bellamy.” Athos brought his head up at the sound of his Captain’s voice. “Tell them.”

“Sir?” Aramis said, his voice shifting to the one he used for the wounded or the ill: calming, reassuring. Athos had anchored himself to that voice many times and found his way back to the light as the darkness threatened to consume him. “How are you feeling?”

“Head hurts like a bloody bastard,” Treville grumbled. “But I’m otherwise intact.”

“Are you seeing double? Have any dizziness?”

“Only if I try to move,” Treville answered honestly. Athos saw him turn his head carefully, his eyes finding Athos and gentling. “I knew you’d come.”

“I hope you’ll understand if I disobey the order to kill you,” Athos replied, feeling his mouth tug up into a small smile at the sight of his Captain’s slow blink.

“You brought them all?” Treville asked, sounding tired. He closed his eyes as if to ward off dizziness. “Porthos? d’Artagnan?”

“We are here, Captain,” Porthos answered from the window.

“Good,” Treville sighed. “The Cardinal would have found a way to get to them if left without your protection, Athos.”

“Yes, sir,” Athos replied, though he was confident his men would never know defeat by the Cardinal’s hand. “We need to get you out of here. Aramis, can he ride?”

“It will be painful, and not a little difficult,” Aramis sighed, pulling out a small pouch from inside his jacket and redressing the deep wound. His hands were swift and sure and within moments, Treville looked more alert. “I have herbs to help with the bleeding and some laudanum for the pain, but it will make you want to sleep, Captain.”

“I can manage the pain,” Treville replied. “I will simply need someone to keep me from walking into walls.”

Athos smiled, hearing tension underscore the brave front his Captain was posing and appreciating why the man was doing so.

“What of Armistead and the men outside?” d’Artagnan asked.

Athos looked at Bellamy. “Tell us,” he said, not realizing that he’d ordered the man as if he were one of his own.

“Armistead had arranged a meeting with the King,” Bellamy began, his eyes on Treville, as if the Captain was the only man in the room and he was drawing strength from his presence. “He wanted to speak to him about taxes in Picardy; they are breaking the people.”

Athos glanced quickly at d’Artagnan and saw the young man’s jaw line was hard, his dark eyes pinned to Bellamy and every line of his body taut as he listened.

“At the last moment, Armistead decided to send Argent,” Bellamy sighed. “He was afraid he would encounter his brother and didn’t want the fall-out of the confrontation to ruin Jean-Armand’s life.”

“I take it Argent had no such qualms,” Athos muttered, grasping one of the andirons and stoking the fire.

“None,” Bellamy agreed. “When he returned with the news that he’d spoken to the Cardinal instead, Armistead flew into a rage, but was outnumbered. Argent had Bélanger on his side and I was too…weak.” He folded his pale brows in apology as he continued to talk to Treville rather than the room at large.

“When Jean-Armand showed up in the village I was at once thrilled and terrified. I’d not seen my old friend in two decades, but I knew if Argent saw him….” He covered his face, speaking the rest through his hands. “Armistead sided with those who’d always supported him. Bélanger shot Jean-Armand, and it was all I could do to trap them in the Château.”

Athos looked at Treville, whose eyes were once more closed, his head once more bandaged, the stark white contrasting sharply with the tanned skin. “Sir?”

“Yes, Athos.”

“We can get you out without bloodshed, leave the men in the Château to whatever fate befalls them.” He glanced at Porthos and Aramis, knowing that to do so would risk their futures as well as his own. His men returned his look with a steady gaze. “Or we can end this now.”

He left it unsaid that doing so could mean the death of Treville’s brother.

“When I joined my brother in the uprising,” Treville said, opening his eyes to look toward the ceiling and not at any of the men in the room, “I was d’Artagnan’s age. I knew nothing of battle or duty. My brother was everything to me, and anything he said, I believed. I followed.”

Athos dropped his eyes to the fire, remembering clearly the way Thomas had regarded him, the way his eyes had beseeched him, trusting completely. d’Artagnan had shared with them the story Anne had told him about why she’d killed Thomas. Hearing the lie once more had hurt more than he’d anticipated it would. Thomas was loved by everyone for a reason: he was worthy of it. He was young, untested, untried. And the world never had the chance to rough him up a bit.

“I didn’t fully realize what we were doing; I was caught up in the passion of it. Wanting to do anything to make my brother proud,” Treville’s voice had taken on a soft, almost dream-like quality as he spoke. “But when the first man fell, the illusion shattered. There was nothing honorable about the rebellion. Nothing honorable about the deaths of those men, barricaded in an alley, fighting the King’s soldiers.”

“Jean-Armand and I escaped through a tavern,” Bellamy said. “Claude – Armistead – had told me that if I survived, I was to get his brother away from Picardy. I did so—“

“Much to my dismay,” Treville broke in.

“Dismay is a bit thin,” Bellamy nearly smiled. “You were enraged, and with good reason.”

“I do believe you knocked me unconscious and shoved me into the back of a wagon heading to Paris,” Treville rolled his head carefully, as if it were made of spun glass, to regard his old friend.

Bellamy nodded. “That’s about the truth of it. I returned to find that Armistead and Bélanger still lived and Argent was gravely wounded. Everyone else was dead.”

“No one knew I was part of the uprising,” Treville said. “My father vouched for me when I arrived in Paris, and my brother had not used his own name when bringing men to his side. I thought I had put it behind me….”

“Until Argent met with the Cardinal,” Aramis sighed. “And having his position with the King so precarious after our trick, the Cardinal was more than eager to find a way to take us all down.”

“And he has the means to do it,” Athos replied.

“We must end this,” Treville said, frowning in pain as he rolled to his side, using his elbow to prop himself up.

Aramis moved to help him, easing him back against the support of the wall and resting a pillow behind his neck. They waited until Treville had balanced himself, all watching their Captain expectantly.

“Can you do it quietly?” Treville asked.

“You want us to kill those men?” Aramis replied, surprise evident in his voice. “Your brother?”

“I don’t _want_ it, Aramis,” Treville replied. “But the Cardinal was right. It is them…or you.”

“We could imprison them,” Athos suggested.

“How?” Bellamy asked. “On what charges? And who would you get to keep them silent?”

“Whatever the answer,” Porthos called from the window. “We better decide quick-like. They’ve got the front portcullis up. Not gonna take them long to find their way through this place.”

Athos turned to Bellamy. “Take us to where you’ve hidden those men.” Rotating, he faced the other three men, making a quick decision. “Aramis, you’re with us. We need your aim. Porthos, you cover the Captain. d’Artagnan, keep your sword at the ready.”

They each nodded and started for the door.

“Athos,” Treville called. Athos paused and looked over his shoulder at his Captain. “Whatever you decide to do, it will be the right choice.”

Athos nodded once, frowning with the weight of his Captain’s trust. They followed Bellamy down the darkened corridor and found that it widened and angled to the right a bit. This leg of the stone maze was also lit by the high, thin windows, the chill from the night air seeping inside.

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan whispered urgently. “I must know.”

“Not now,” Aramis replied, his tone matching d’Artagnan’s.

“If it will get me hanged—“

“You’ll take it very personally, I remember.”

“—I have a right to know what it is!”

Athos turned, his worry and tension snapping as d’Artagnan’s relentlessness slipped under his skin. He grabbed the young man by his shirtfront and shoved him, hard, against the stone wall. d’Artagnan grunted slightly as the back of his head _thunked_ against the wall. Looking at his young protégé with fire in his eyes, Athos forced his voice to stay calm.

“You are one of us, d’Artagnan. _That_ , in the Cardinal’s eyes, is enough to get you hanged.”

“There’s more,” d’Artagnan pressed, and Athos had to admit that he was slightly impressed that he’d not intimidated his young friend into backing down. “And I think I know what it involves.”

“You know _nothing_ , d’Artagnan,” Athos hissed. “And for the sake of your life, I will keep it that way.”

“Are you two going to join me, or should we just wait for the next uprising?” Aramis muttered irritably.

d’Artagnan stubbornly stared back at Athos, nothing in his dark eyes giving Athos any indication that he would be letting this go. Athos pushed at the lad once more, then stepped away. He glanced at Aramis who was staring at him, almost accusatory.

“His stubbornness will be the death of him,” Athos growled, as if in defense of his actions.

“Reminds me of someone else I know,” Aramis replied, matching his tone.

Athos glanced at d’Artagnan, who refused to look away. “Why is it when I say _no_ , you hear, _by all means, continue_?”

d’Artagnan lifted a brow. “You’re the one who said I was more like you than I realized.”

Unwilling to continue the argument further, Athos turned and followed Aramis and Bellamy down the corridor. His thoughts were tangled when it came to d’Artagnan. He got too caught up in who Thomas had been and who d’Artagnan was and how they both looked at him like he had the answers to questions they hadn’t thought to ask.

Except d’Artagnan was different. He complicated things by creating his own answers. He terrified Athos by taking chances that Thomas would never have taken. Athos was repeatedly caught off-guard by the completely open, passionate nature with which d’Artagnan attacked life. He hadn’t yet learned to close himself off, and while that was part of why he had so quickly become ingrained into their brotherhood, the possibility of it actually killing him was too high for Athos’ comfort.

“Here,” Bellamy said, pointing to a solid door with bars across the small window. He handed Athos a key. “I’ve given ‘em water, but haven’t had much food to share. They’ve been in there nearly two days.”

“Weapons?”

“I don’t know,” Bellamy answered honestly. “Though if they did have them, I imagine they would’ve used them to break out by now.”

“Go back to Treville,” Athos ordered. “We will join you when it’s done.”

Bellamy nodded and hurried away.

“Athos,” Aramis said solemnly. “We are not going to simply execute these men.”

Athos schooled his features. As a leader, it was often left up to him to make the hard decisions. The death of these three men meant the lives of his friends, his Captain. It meant the continuation of the Musketeers as he knew it.

Hell had already reserved him a place; he needn’t worry about the mark this action would leave on his soul.

“I will take care of it,” Athos replied.

“What? No!” d’Artagnan stepped forward. “You don’t have to do this, Athos.”

Athos turned to face him, fully prepared to order the young man to stand down, and was taken aback at the fierce determination caught in d’Artagnan’s dark eyes. His face was pulled into a frown, his jaw tight, and his stance offering no quarter.

“You do not have to take on all our sins,” d’Artagnan said tightly. “If this is your decision, we will stand by you.”

Athos looked over at Aramis. “How else do we save Treville?”

Aramis closed his eyes, then pulled out his rosary and kissed it, his lips murmuring a silent prayer. Taking that as his friend’s acquiescence, Athos opened the door to the room where Bellamy had trapped the three men.

And stepped into a nightmare.

“ _Merde_ ,” Athos whispered, staring in shock.

The window at the back of the room had been chipped away, bars removed by what looked to have been a grappling hook that was now pinned to the bottom edge of the stone sill. A body lay in the corner, neck twisted at an unnatural angle giving an immediate cause of death. Another lay crumpled near the window, blood covering his face. The third man was nowhere to be seen.

Aramis moved to the bloodied man and rolled him over.

“Jean-Armand?” the man rasped, not opening his eyes.

“This must be Claude du Peyer,” Aramis said over his shoulder. “Armistead.”

“I’m willing to bet Argent is the one who went out the window,” d’Artagnan said, crouching over the dead man.

“Why do you say that?” Athos asked, moving to the window’s edge and looking down.

He jerked back in surprise to see a man on the rope, his harquebus already primed and pointed upwards at Athos.

“Because he betrayed them once—“ d’Artagnan started, but stumbled back as well when the man on the rope fired.

Athos felt d’Artagnan instinctively grab at his arm, pulling him out of the way, and lifted his dagger just as the man rolled from the rope into the room, pulling another weapon from his jacket. In unison, d’Artagnan and Athos threw their daggers, but to Athos’ surprise, d’Artagnan was throwing at a second man who had followed the first up the rope. Athos’ dagger found its target, but as he fell, the man pulled the trigger, firing his weapon.

Aramis cried out in surprised pain, falling back across Armistead.

“Aramis!”

Athos pulled his rapier and rushed toward his fallen friend, only to stop and battle a third man who had climbed the rope. He crossed swords with his attacker, noticing that d’Artagnan had moved toward the window, grabbing Athos’ dagger from the body of the dead man. It took him several seconds to realize that the young Musketeer was cutting the rope, sending whoever else was heading their way back down to where they came from.

Athos dispatched his opponent with gusto, wiping his sword of blood in an instinctive, automatic gesture as he crossed over to where d’Artagnan was already crouched next to Aramis.

“Bad?”

“It’s not good,” d’Artagnan shook his head, ripping the hole in Aramis’ breeches a bit wider to see the wound. Aramis was propped up on his elbows, his face pale, practically biting through his lip to keep silent. “Went through the meat of his leg, out the back.”

“Didn’t—“ Aramis gasped, his breath shaking as he tried to suppress the pain. “Didn’t get the bone.”

“Small mercies,” Athos breathed. “We have to get you out of here.”

“T-take Armistead,” Aramis gasped. “He’s…he’s Treville’s brother, A-Athos.”

d’Artagnan looked at Athos, his face stony. “I’ve got Aramis.”

Athos nodded and helped d’Artagnan pull Aramis upright and steady him as the marksman paled further with the change in elevation. Aramis was actually the shortest of the four, with d’Artagnan a close second. However, d’Artagnan still had a ways to go before he caught up with Aramis in muscle and Athos saw their young friend’s wiry frame brace to take the weight as Aramis leaned heavily on him.

As Athos leveraged Armistead to a seated position, the older man blinked aware, blood having collected and dried on his lashes, creating a ghastly expression. Dazed, he allowed Athos to draw his arm across Athos’ shoulders and begin to pull him to his feet. Once there, however, he started to push away, looking around the destroyed room.

“Who are you? Where is Bellamy? Argent?” His tone was arrogant, affronted.

“I am the only way you’re leaving this room alive,” Athos growled. Allowing the man to push away from his aid, Athos shoved him forward. “Your friends are about to attack.”

“Are you with Jean-Armand?” Armistead asked, still trying to pull the pieces together. “Where is Argent?”

“Down there,” Athos tilted his head over his shoulder toward the window. “Move.”

Pushing Armistead ahead of him, Athos stepped into the corridor, shoving the now-empty harquebuses into his weapon’s belt and peering ahead for d’Artagnan and Aramis. He could see them just turning the edge of the corridor, heading back toward the room where Porthos and Treville waited. As Armistead continued to bark questions at him, Athos kept silent, periodically pushing the man forward, quickly surmising that Armistead had not realized the depth of his comrade’s treachery and hatred.

It seemed that Bélanger’s death had occurred soon after Bellamy trapped them in the room, punishment for not having killed Treville with his shot. Armistead then fought Argent when the grappling hook connected with the window to offer them escape. He had known then that Argent would do whatever it took to bring a resurgence of the uprising that had ended in defeat twenty years ago.

With a warning to Armistead to stay where he was or risk joining his friend Bélanger, Athos moved ahead of his struggling friends and opened the door to their temporary sanctuary, shouldering some of Aramis’ weight as d’Artagnan led him into the room.

“Aramis?” Porthos called out, instantly worried as he stepped forward.

“What happened?” Treville demanded, sitting forward, a hand to his head.

“Argent,” d’Artagnan panted, straightening up from having eased Aramis to the floor next to the fireplace. “Killed Bélanger.”

“Claude?” Treville’s voice was tight.

“Hello, Jean-Armand,” Armistead said, stepping into the room.

In the light from the fire, his bloody countenance looked even more horrific. Much of his white hair was stained red and one eye was nearly swollen shut. With little compassion, Athos pushed the older man toward a corner.

“Sit,” he ordered. Glancing over at a shocked Bellamy, he said, “If you wish to help him, you may.”

Bellamy hurried over to the older man and Athos barred the door before turning his attention to Aramis. Porthos and d’Artagnan had cut away the marksman’s breeches from the wound, exposing it to the firelight. Blood still emptied from the jagged hole at the back of Aramis’ leg, though the entrance wound barely seeped.

Porthos knelt next to Aramis, one hand gripping Aramis’ tightly, the other at the back of his friend’s neck in support. d’Artagnan was attempting to staunch the flow of blood, but Athos could see his hands shook. Aramis was pale, but conscious, his jaw so tight Athos was afraid he’d break his teeth.

“I can’t…I don’t know how to stop it,” d’Artagnan whispered. He grabbed the bottle of Armagnac that Treville handed to him and poured it over the wound in the front before soaking the cloth he’d pressed against the wound at the back. When the burn of the alcohol hit the torn skin, Aramis stiffened and sucked in a great lungful of air, but didn’t cry out. “It needs to be closed.”

“Aramis,” Athos said calmly, though inside he felt his heart shivering. “We must burn it.”

Aramis nodded once, his lips thinning, as though he didn’t trust himself to speak.

“Do you want the laudanum?” Athos continued, retrieving the knife from the table top and shoving it quickly into the burning coals.

“S-save it,” Aramis managed, his free hand shaking as he reached up blindly for something to brace himself. He made contact with d’Artagnan’s shirtfront and twisted his hand into a fist within the cloth. “A-Athos….”

Athos was on his knees, bringing his eyes level to Aramis. “You will live,” he said, slightly amazed by the way the two men flanking Aramis nodded in immediate agreement, as though they’d simply been waiting for him to confirm it. “I will not stand for anything else.”

Aramis swallowed wetly, his breath hammering through his nostrils as he fought for control. His eyes pooled in reaction both to the pain and shock, and Athos found his expression twisting in sympathy.

“Aramis,” Porthos called, his voice like warm whiskey. Athos watched Aramis’ eyes track to the side, pinning on his friend’s face. “You keep lookin’ at me. Look at my eyes. You feel this?” Athos saw the larger man gently shake their joined hands. Aramis’ nod was stilted, but he kept his eyes on Porthos. “I’m staying here. Right here. And you better stay with me.”

“T-trouble,” Aramis managed, his body wracked with a shudder of pain.

“’at’s right,” Porthos said, unbelievably able to crack a genuine smile. “Who’ll keep me outta trouble? And we can’t forget d’Artagnan.”

Athos checked the knife blade, glancing at the young Gascon as the lad’s head shot up from where he’d been peering at the effect of his make-shift bandage. Aramis hadn’t released d’Artagnan’s shirt front and Athos noticed the young man had leaned forward to make his grip more accessible.

“What are you talking about?” d’Artagnan scoffed. “I rarely get into trouble.”

Athos watched as Porthos and Aramis rolled their eyes in unison.

“Don’t suppose we should remind ‘im that he was very recently chained to a post in the garrison courtyard for a day, eh?” Porthos grinned at Aramis, who managed a shaky smile in return.

Athos glanced up as Treville shifted at this news. He shook his head once and their Captain nodded, knowing it was a story for another time. The knife blade was heated; Athos pulled on his glove to remove it from the fire.

“Aramis,” he said, forcing himself to infuse his voice with calm. “Are you ready?”

“As ever,” Aramis replied, breathless.

“Porthos, roll him to his side. d’Artagnan, brace him.”

Aramis did not release Porthos’ hand, nor did he let go of d’Artagnan. Athos crouched next to his friend’s outstretched leg and took a breath. Glancing up at Porthos, he nodded.

“Aramis, keep lookin’ at me. Right at me. ‘at’s it,” Porthos ordered, his tone slipping into something softer, gentler, the words no longer mattering.

Athos wiped the wound clean once, then without further hesitation pressed the flat of the knife against the ragged hole, sealing the opening. The heated metal sizzled against Aramis’ sensitive skin and the scream that tore from Aramis’ throat shook them all.

Eyes closed, Aramis’ back arched and he flexed instinctively, pulling d’Artagnan close, nearly across his body with the force of his grip. Porthos’ litany increased in volume, but Athos could no longer register the words – or even if it was in French. He removed the knife, turned the blade over and pressed it to the front of Aramis’ wound, triggering another, ragged scream from his friend as he writhed against the pain.

Moments after Athos had applied the blade the second time, Aramis went limp, his hand dropping from d’Artagnan’s shirt front, his fingers going lax in Porthos’ grip. Athos looked up anxiously as Porthos stroked his friend’s sweaty hair away from his face, then nodded.

“He’s out,” he said, his voice rough as if it had been his scream they’d heard and not Aramis’.

Athos sagged, feeling the adrenalin from the moment bleed from him. d’Artagnan had not yet pushed himself upright from where Aramis had pulled him down. The smell of blood and burned flesh hung heavy in the air and all Athos could hear was the pounding of his own heartbeat and the after-echo of Aramis’ pained scream.

“I have some extra cloth,” Bellamy suddenly spoke up. “I can help you bind the wound. I’ll use the herbs he blended for Jean-Armand to keep away infection.”

Athos looked up, nodded wearily. Porthos shifted their unconscious friend until Aramis lay partially in his lap and allowed Bellamy access to Aramis’ leg. d’Artagnan pushed himself clumsily to his feet, bracing himself against the wall for a moment. His sluggish movements reminded Athos that none of them had slept much in the last few days, the youngest of them least of all as he’d been fighting a silent war with delayed grief.

The Gascon made his way to the window, and Athos watched as he closed his eyes a moment, breathing in the fresh night air. He didn’t blame the lad; the room was beginning to close in around him as well. Then, Athos frowned as d’Artagnan suddenly looked out and down to the base of the stone structure.

“Athos,” he called. “I think we may have a problem.”

Athos stood, forced to stomp his feet carefully to return feeling to his legs, and joined d’Artagnan at the window.

“There’s more,” the young man said quietly. He glanced askance at Athos. “A lot more.”

“We cannot fight this many,” Athos agreed, eyes raking over the number of men who had gathered at the front entrance. There were easily double the number that had been present when they first broke in. “Not even if we had Aramis’ aim.”

“We need to get Treville out the back, return with reinforcements,” d’Artagnan suggested. “We can’t let them march on Paris or create an uprising here in Villers-Cotterêts.”

“You won’t need reinforcements,” Armistead spoke up suddenly.

Athos turned to look at him. Bellamy had cleaned the blood from his face and Athos suddenly saw the resemblance between the old revolutionary and his Captain. He saw that Treville was sitting forward, elbows braced on his knees, his bandaged head hanging low as though in prayer.

“What do you suggest?” Athos inquired.

“Kill Argent,” Armistead said tiredly. “They won’t have anyone to rally them.”

“And what of you?” Porthos challenged.

“I am old,” Armistead said. “I fought my battle long ago. And I lost.”

Athos saw the older man’s eyes track to rest on the bowed head of his younger brother. Athos followed his gaze and watched as Treville used the wall to brace himself and rose slowly to his feet. His face was pale, his jaw clenched, but after a moment he was able to move his hand from the wall and stand without swaying.

“Men,” he said, drawing the eyes of everyone, save Aramis who lay unconscious in Porthos’ arms. “You have fought well, and bravely. You have done your duty to King and country. I can think of no words for you in this moment except those of gratitude for your willingness to sacrifice and your tenacity to survive.”

Athos felt his breath hitch and his heart beat furiously as he waited for his Captain’s next words.

“I can see no value in the loss of your lives at this juncture,” Treville continued. “The men of Villers-Cotterêts may yet rally more to their cause; they could even venture all the way to Paris, but that is a different battle for another time. Now, our fight is escape, evade, and regroup.”

Athos nodded, relief making him weak. He would have followed Treville into the heart of the men below had his Captain asked for it. When Treville turned and met his eyes, Athos realized Treville knew exactly that.

“Bellamy,” Treville said, turning to his old friend. “You must leave with us. If they find you, they will kill you.”

“I cannot, Jean-Armand,” Bellamy replied sadly. “I could not follow you to Paris twenty years ago; I cannot do so now. My future lies here in whatever shape my death holds.” He glanced at the Musketeers, all watching him warily. “But I will do my best to help you escape.”

Treville did not address his brother, Athos noticed. He simply nodded his thanks to Bellamy and moved to the table to begin re-arming himself. His movements were slow, precise, as if every twitch of muscle shot pain through his wounded head, but he didn’t stop until all but the knife used to close Aramis’ wound had been once more secured to his person.

“Porthos, you can carry Aramis?” Treville asked, stepping into the role of leader and Captain once more.

“As long as I need to,” Porthos promised.

“d’Artagnan,” Treville called, his voice pulling the young man toward him. “Make sure your weapons are primed. You will lead us down the corridor and through the back. Athos, you’ll cover our backs.”

Athos wanted to protest, wanted to say that he should lead the way, put himself as a shield between danger and his men. Treville clearly recognized his resistant expression and looked solemnly at him.

“d’Artagnan is agile,” he explained. “He is able to dodge weapons faster than all of us and with Porthos and I just behind him, we will be able to cover his back.”

Athos lifted his chin in acceptance, then turned to help d’Artagnan load the harquebuses.

“You heard?” Porthos said quietly.

Athos glanced over and saw that he was talking to a now-conscious Aramis.

“Came in on the part where d’Artagnan is agile,” Aramis replied, his voice pain-drugged and rough.

“Ah, so you missed where I was ordered to carry you.”

“At last I will be treated in the manner which I deserve,” Aramis returned.

Porthos grinned, then Athos saw him quickly sober, his jaw going tense as he gripped Aramis’ shoulder tightly, his dark eyes saying whatever it was he would not allow himself to speak aloud.

“Do not worry, my friend,” Aramis said to him, his voice pitched low and earnest. “I have a vested interest in not dying.”

That earned the wounded marksman a genuine smile from Porthos and the big man stood, gently easing Aramis upright, and then more-or-less to his feet, all weight kept off of his wounded leg. Athos watched carefully as Aramis gathered his wits and breathed slowly to ward off whatever ill effects the change in altitude and wash of pain caused. He draped his arm across Porthos’ shoulders.

“Will you be able to keep up?” Athos asked.

“I won’t let you down,” Aramis replied thinly, his free hand resting on his sword hilt.

Athos placed a hand on Aramis’ shoulder, squeezing briefly. “That is never a possibility.”

Treville glanced around the room, once more skimming over the figure of his brother, standing in the corner of the room where Athos had left him. They were traveling light – no muskets this time, as there would be little time to position them – each with multiple daggers and harquebuses, even Aramis.

“d’Artagnan?” Treville called the young man to him. “Be swift and cautious.”

To his credit, the young man said nothing; the look of determination and promise in his eyes made Athos proud.

“Jean-Armand?” Armistead called, the plea in his voice unmistakable.

Treville paused, visibly gathering himself, then looked up. The bandage around his head, stained with fresh blood, and the lines of pain around his eyes gave him a haunted appearance, but his jaw was squared and tight. He did not respond to his brother except to regard him silently.

“I am sorry,” Armistead whispered in a broken voice.

“I know,” Treville replied, his expression impassive, offering Armistead little room. “I have always known.”

Athos frowned, knowing that this was not his business, but unable to help think that had Thomas lived, there would be nothing that would keep him from forgiving his brother of anything. One look at Treville’s face, however, told Athos that Armistead had not been forgiven. Not by a long shot.

On Treville’s nod, d’Artagnan opened the door, leading them out, in one hand a sword, in the other his harquebus. Treville and Athos were armed similarly, with Aramis holding a harquebus in his free hand while Porthos kept both hands on Aramis to keep him moving. Bellamy followed them from the room, but Armistead stayed behind.

They reached the stairs with little incident, but Athos’ stomach knotted as d’Artagnan began to descend the stairs ahead of them. The noise alerted them first to the danger and when d’Artagnan hurried ahead, Athos had to bite his lip to keep from calling out a warning. He heard a weapon fire, then another as Treville breached the opening and then he was pushing past Porthos and launching into the fray.

They were met at the base of the stairs by roughly eight men, heavily armed, but minimally skilled. Dimly aware of Bellamy helping to hold Aramis upright, Athos heard Porthos roar as he pulled his schiavona from its scabbard and swing at two men seeking to overpower a weakened Treville. Athos engaged, firing once, then dropping his harquebus in favor of another blade, blocking attack and sweeping cuts and slices as he parried and thrust.

He could see d’Artagnan battling to his left, cleanly avoiding a move that three months ago would have felled him. The young man slipped past his opponents, coming in on their weak sides and stabbing his way to a decisive victory before turning quickly to take on the next man who launched at him.

Athos continued to connect swords with a man easily twice his size, pressing him back and using his skill to turn the man until his blade was at the back of the man’s neck. Without pausing to think, Athos pulled his dagger, sliced the blade across the man’s throat and turned to face the next attacker. He didn’t know where the rest of the men they’d seen gathering outside the Château were, but he didn’t let himself think about that as his sword crossed another’s.

Using the hilt of his sword to trap the blade of his opponent, Athos twisted his wrist and pulled, disarming the man and stepped close to drive his dagger blade home, then turned to find Treville. His Captain was against the wall, clearly flagging, but fighting on as his opponent slammed his heavy blade against Treville’s thinner rapier. Athos pushed forward, his heart thudding painfully as Treville went to a knee, his sword up in defense.

Before he could reach the man, though, he heard a weapon fire and saw Treville’s attacker freeze, then collapse in a heap, revealing Bellamy standing with one of Aramis’ weapons smoking in his hand.

“Thank you,” Treville panted, pushing slowly to his feet.

Bellamy turned to his old friend with a smile, but before he was able to reply, Athos saw a dagger fly through the air and embed itself into Bellamy’s chest, the older man slumping forward, a look of profound surprise crossing his features as the light left his eyes.

Treville cried out in denial, dropping his sword and catching his friend as he fell. Athos looked to the direction the blade came and realized that Porthos had whirled to make quick work of the man who’d taken Bellamy’s life.

“Athos!” Aramis yelled, slumped against the wall behind Treville, his hand on his Captain’s arm while Treville held Bellamy’s body.

Athos looked over and caught the harquebus Aramis threw his way, turning to bring his sword up just in time to stop another sword from catching his guard down. He parried, backing up, then brought up the weapon and fired, catching Porthos’ eye as his last opponent fell. The big man was breathing hard, his schiavona dripping blood, a cut across his cheek, but very much alive.

He nodded at Athos, cleaned his blade with a swipe, and slipped it back into his scabbard.

“d’Artagnan!” Athos called, looking around.

“Here!” d’Artagnan called, several feet away, near the door. “They’ve gone ‘round to the front,” the young man called, stepping into the opened doorway, the moonlight cutting across him and illuminating the youthful lines of his face. “We have our chance.”

Athos nodded and turned to Treville. “Captain, we must go.”

Treville gently lay Bellamy’s body down on the stone floor. “He deserved more than to be abandoned among enemies,” Treville said tightly. “He deserved to lie with friends.”

“Captain,” Aramis said, gripping Treville’s arm, his tone a solemn promise. “He _is_ with friends.”

Swallowing hard, Treville nodded and pushed himself shakily to his feet. Porthos stepped close and helped Aramis up, shoving a newly loaded harquebus into his hand. Athos rotated, leading the trio through the maze of bodies to where d’Artagnan waited. He nodded to his young protégé to lead them out toward the horses.

No sooner had d’Artagnan stepped into the open, however, than the blast of another weapon split the temporary post-battle quiet. d’Artagnan jerked as if he’d been shoved, staggering slightly, then went down to one knee with a soft grunt of pain before looking up, lifting his weapon and firing.

Athos had time to blink in shock at the sight of his young friend falling to his knees when moments ago he’d been the picture of fighting grace before he saw d’Artagnan’s assailant fall, a neat hole in his forehead.

“Athos,” d’Artagnan gasped, the harquebus falling from his fingers as he twisted to the side. “I think…I may need some help here.”

Athos stumbled forward, reaching out blindly as d’Artagnan sagged, staring in disbelief at the growing stain of red that spread out from beneath the young Musketeer’s leather jacket.


	5. Hors de combat

It had felt like a punch. A very hard, very _insistent_ punch. He hadn’t even felt the pain until after he’d shot the man who’d shot him.

 _Shot him_.

The pain flooded him then, like liquid fire from his shoulder through his chest, up to his jaw line and down to his knees. He was a body of pain and he couldn’t breathe beyond calling for Athos. He felt himself fall forward, momentarily at a loss to control any of his limbs as the fire ate him up from the inside.

“No, no, d’Artagnan, don’t,” Athos was whispering, urgent, almost frantic.

d’Artagnan blinked, confused, trying to piece together thoughts that had been scattered by the fire. He suddenly saw Porthos leaning over him as well, his larger fingers gripping his jaw, his low rumble beseeching him to _stay awake, stay with them_.

Only wait, no Porthos wasn’t there now…that had been before. On a Paris street after Athos’ shot had sent him spinning away in surprise at how very _much_ it hurt.

He blinked again and took a great gasping breath, unaware the he had thrust the fear of God into his friends who looked on anxiously by holding his breath in reaction to the pain.

“ _Holy shit_ ,” d’Artagnan gasped.

There were voices whispering urgently around him, faces bent over him, but it was too dark to make out who was who and his head was spinning with lack of air from the fire inside of him. He couldn’t pinpoint one person, one face and there were hands on him, parting his jacket, lifting him slightly and then without warning—

“Ah!” he cried out, unable to stop himself.

Someone had pressed a wad of cloth against his shoulder while another clapped their hand over his mouth.

“Shhh, be still, we have you, just be still.”

That was Porthos, he knew. He could suddenly distinguish one from the other, the pain in his shoulder cutting a clear path through the fog of moments before. Athos was next to him, pressing the cloth to his wound, Porthos behind him, keeping him quiet, Treville and Aramis were holding each other up near his feet.

“We need to move,” Treville said. “Can you—“

d’Artagnan attempted to speak from behind Porthos’ hand, sounding muffled. He reached up with his right hand – oddly unable to move his left – and pushed the big man’s hand away.

“I can manage it.”

“Wrap it tightly,” he heard Aramis instructing. “Keep the arm immobile.”

Someone slipped a strap around his wrist and he felt his left arm brought up against his chest, the position holding the wad of cloth in place against the wound on his shoulder. The strap was fastened around his back and pulled tight enough he gasped.

Then he was suddenly sitting up and blood was sloshing around his head and causing his vision to sway and tilt as though the word were slipping sideways. Before he had time to steady himself, someone had lifted him to his feet and there was a hand at his waist and another at his neck while someone stood in front of him, so close he was able to press his forehead against a shoulder and breathe until the world finally calmed the hell down.

 _Athos_. He could smell the leather and sweat with the ever-present trace of wine that was as much a part of his friend as his rapier. The hand at the back of his neck was Athos, too, he now realized, and Porthos steadied him at the waist.

“I’ve got it,” he said, trying to steady his voice, to reassure them.

When Athos stepped away, d’Artagnan almost fell, but Porthos tightened his grip, keeping him balanced. Through clearing eyes, d’Artagnan saw Treville help Aramis to his feet, the bandage at their Captain’s head once more stained with blood, Aramis unable to put weight on his wounded leg. In the moonlight, Aramis looked so pale that his dark eyes were like two coals in his handsome face.

“Help Aramis,” d’Artagnan said, managing to lock his knees and keep from toppling.

“Don’t you collapse on me, lad,” Porthos growled, hesitantly releasing him to reach for Aramis.

“I can walk,” d’Artagnan returned.

He sounded a bit too petulant for his liking, but really, what was he to do about it? His body had shifted from fire to ice and was now apparently working to disengage his left arm from his body, all pain focused in his shoulder then radiating outward with each heartbeat.

How could anyone sound in control when their body was creating such a ruckus?

“This way,” Athos said tightly, weapons up, leading the way.

d’Artagnan kept his eyes on his friend. His leader. Athos always led the way, calm, collected, despite the fact that the world was constantly trying to unseat him or bury him. The only time he’d seen his friend on the edge of control, bordering dangerously on a surrender to chaos, had been when his home had burned down around them. Now d’Artagnan knew who had been the cause of such mayhem within such a disciplined man.

He didn’t realize he was weaving as he followed Athos at a slow lope until Treville came up on his right and plucked at his sleeve, keeping him moving in a straighter line, taking him safely with him to the trees. Once within the protective shadows of the thicket, d’Artagnan sagged against a tree and then slid to his knees on the ground next to where Porthos eased Aramis down.

“We have three horses tethered—“ Athos started, but was stopped when Porthos caught his attention.

“Look who found ‘is way back!” Porthos said, the smile evident under his words.

d’Artagnan closed his eyes, his head canted back against the tree, his shoulder touching Aramis as he caught his breath, relieved that Aramis’ horse had found his way back after they’d sent him careening off into the group of men and torches. He really hadn’t wanted the animal to get lost.

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis was saying to him. d’Artagnan rolled his head along the tree, peering blearily at his friend. “Stay awake.”

“I will.”

“I can dig that ball out of there when we’re able to stop,” Aramis promised.

“You’ll forgive me if that doesn’t sound incredibly enticing,” d’Artagnan replied with a grunt of pain as his arm throbbed in response.

Aramis huffed out a strangled laugh. “No, I can’t imagine it would.”

Porthos was suddenly crouching before them. “All right, here’s how it’s going to go,” he said. “Aramis, you’ll ride behind me as you won’t be able to stay in the saddle with that leg.”

“Very noble of you,” Aramis remarked.

d’Artagnan realized he could hear the low keen at the back of Aramis’ words. He hid his discomfort well; d’Artagnan was determined to follow suit. Though right now his arm was teetering over the edge of discomfort and staring down the barrel of scream-worthy pain. Despite that, he’d seen these men bear up under worse: Porthos with a blade to his back, having to stand the trip until Aramis could stitch him up, for example.

He could manage this.

“…with me?”

“What?” d’Artagnan blinked as Porthos gripped his chin, bringing his eyes front. “Yes, sorry. Was just thinking about that blade you took to the back.”

He hadn’t meant to say that. It had simply slipped past his barrier.

“Ah, well, with that trip down memory lane concluded, ‘ow ‘bout we get you mounted, yeah?” Porthos cupped his right elbow, pulling him to his feet as though he were made of glass. “You’ll ride next to me.”

d’Artagnan could do nothing but nod as the big man helped him maneuver his foot into the stirrup and then swing across the back of the horse. Pain spiked up through his shoulder and for a minute he saw nothing but white, leaning over the neck of his horse to grasp control. The earthy smell of the animal caught him, held him, and brought him back so that he could once more hear the voices of the men around him, Athos’ in particular.

“…hold on, no matter what. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan gasped, blinking toward Athos and hearing his father’s voice once more, the gruff, no-nonsense, _listen and do as you’re told_ tone jerking him upright.

To prove that he heard what Athos said, he tangled his right hand thoroughly into the long, black mane of his mount, gripping both the coarse hair and the reins tightly. Glancing to his left, he saw Aramis sitting behind Porthos’ saddle, his face pinched and pale as the pressure on his wounded leg no doubt threatened to push him over the edge. His hat was pushed back to the crown of his head and his hands were gripping Porthos’ weapon’s belt.

“We cannot follow the main road,” Treville was saying.

d’Artagnan pulled his attention to his Captain, wondering how the man was still upright after such a blow to the head. Treville also looked pale, and slightly blurry, as if the wound from his head had begun to erase the smooth edges of his face and hands, smearing them against the moonlight.

Or, hell, maybe that was just his eyes.

Shaking his head, d’Artagnan brought Treville back into focus just as the man pressed a hand against his head with a wince, continuing, “Argent will see that is covered in search of me.”

“The mountain route will take us a week out of our way,” Athos replied, his frown intense.

“Obernai,” d’Artagnan said, focusing on breathing deeply as his body’s latest rebellion had been to turn his stomach sideways in response to the pain that continued to radiate down his arm.

“What was that?” Porthos and Aramis spoke up at once.

“Obernai Pass,” d’Artagnan repeated. “Two days to the west, circle around back to Paris.”

“The boy is right,” Treville said, his voice clearly amazed – either that d’Artagnan knew or that he’d forgotten. “Obernai is just to the west of Villers-Cotterêts. It will take us a couple days, but we have a better hope of evading Argent.”

“Well done, lad,” Porthos grinned.

“How did you know of the Pass?” Aramis asked, shifting uncomfortably on the horse.

“M’father made me memorize maps of the land,” d’Artagnan replied, hearing the words slur and trying to set them right, finding it odd that he wasn’t able to force his mouth to obey. He sounded drunk. Felt drunk, actually. Only _more_ …as though he’d attempted to match Athos bottle for bottle and yet was somehow still upright. “Said to pay ‘tention. Would need t’know it.”

“Good man for it,” Athos said, eyeing d’Artagnan warily. “We will take the pass, and stop as soon as we are able to check the wounded.”

“Pretty sure that’s all ‘f us,” d’Artagnan muttered.

Without replying, Athos turned and headed west, forcing the others to follow or be left behind. Porthos kept him close, which was good because d’Artagnan felt each hoof beat jar through him. Within a few yards of the woods, he could feel wetness growing under his bandages and shirt, slipping down his side in a warm, sticky trail that very soon began to soak into the waistband of his breeches.

When the shot rang out, d’Artagnan didn’t even flinch. Though they’d been riding for half of an hour, he felt as though he’d been waiting for it, expecting it. Their escape had been too easy, despite their wounds.

“Get behind me!” Athos shouted, wheeling his horse about and turning to charge at whoever was tailing them.

Porthos grabbed the bridle of d’Artagnan’s horse, pulling the animal up alongside him, and with what could only have been practiced ease, leveraged Aramis from his horse to d’Artagnan’s so that the wounded man sat with his hands now at d’Artagnan’s weapon’s belt.

“Stay with him!” Porthos shouted.

“I will,” Aramis and d’Artagnan replied in unison.

They were left standing at the edge of a clearing, the moonlight dying slowly as the bruised hue of dawn began to paint the eastern sky. Treville and Porthos followed Athos forward, weapons drawn, firing into a crowd of five horses. Two shots found their mark, and d’Artagnan gaped as he saw Athos slip from his horse at a run, charging with his sword raised as another man swung his rapier at Athos’ head.

Porthos followed suit, grabbing a man and pulling him from his mount before landing a punch solid enough the two men sharing a horse heard it from where they sat. The attacker gained his footing and bent low, charging Porthos with his shoulder down, but d’Artagnan knew the man didn’t stand a chance. Porthos plucked him up, lifted him high, and slammed him to the ground as if he were nothing more than a bale of hay. The man didn’t rise again.

d’Artagnan shifted his slow-to-focus eyes back to Athos, watching as he fought the other man, swords clashing, metal crashing, voices shouting wordless curses into the early morning air. Athos was a wonder with a sword; d’Artagnan could watch him all day for a week and still find himself learning new moves. It came as no surprise when, even weary and worn as he was, Athos speared his opponent, standing to clean his blade.

“Captain!” Athos called, looking around.

It was then that d’Artagnan realized he’d lost sight of Treville.

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis whispered at his ear, standing the hairs on the back of his neck on their ends. “Lay flat and keep the reins tight.”

Not bothering to question, d’Artagnan did as instructed, tensing as he waited for the sound of the weapon’s discharge. It came mere heartbeats later, their mount dancing with surprise, but d’Artagnan spoke to it in low, soothing words, holding it in check. He glanced up as the acrid scent of gunpowder filled his nostrils to see a man in the trees fall to the ground, having been in a perfect sniper position to take one of them out.

“You got him!” d’Artagnan exclaimed softly.

“Always the tone of surprise,” Aramis teased him, pulling him back upright in the saddle.

“Where’s Treville?”

He saw that Athos and Porthos had caught their horses and were heading back the way they came, toward a twist in the road. Nudging his mount forward, he and Aramis followed until they came across a scene that d’Artagnan knew would not be leaving his memory anytime soon. He felt Aramis stiffen at his back, the marksman’s fingers tightening on his weapon’s belt.

Treville stood at the apex of the road, his sword at a man’s throat. Though he’d never met him, d’Artagnan was certain it could only be Argent. Across from Treville, Armistead stood, a harquebus pointed at Argent. Behind Armistead, just a bit up the road was a man d’Artagnan didn’t recognize, using a tree for cover, a musket propped in the bend of a branch, aimed at Armistead’s back. And Argent stood with a harquebus pointed at both Treville and Armistead.

No one spoke; it was as if the morning held its breath. Slowly, achingly slowly, d’Artagnan felt his loaded harquebus being pulled from his weapon’s belt. Athos and Porthos were motionless; d’Artagnan could practically feel Athos’ desperation to save his Captain warring with his commitment to keep his men safe.

“You should never have been allowed to leave Villers-Cotterêts, Jean-Armand,” Argent stated, his voice hollow. Dead. He’d already accepted his seat in Hell. “You should have been hung with the others who survived.”

“I see you avoided that fate,” Treville replied calmly, as if his life was not two heartbeats from ending. “Whose skirts did you hide behind, Argent?”

“Even if you walk away from this moment,” Argent sneered, “you will not return to your cushioned life. I have spoken to Richelieu. I have set events into motion that even the flawless Captain of the King’s Musketeers cannot overcome.”

“Put your weapon down, Argent,” Armistead ordered. “Killing my brother will offer you nothing.”

Without removing his eyes from Treville, Argent responded, “It will offer me the satisfaction of finishing what I should have years ago.”

d’Artagnan felt Aramis exhale at his ear once more, saying nothing. Carefully, slowly, he eased forward, gripping his reins tight, laying low over the neck of his horse as he’d done moments before. He felt Aramis’ arm across his back, the marksman’s elbow pressing almost painfully into his spine. His shoulder throbbed, the pain ratcheting up and burning the back of his throat. He wanted to close his eyes to fight the surge of nausea, but didn’t dare look away from Treville.

“We were wrong, Argent,” Treville said calmly, the tip of his sword never leaving the vulnerable underside of Argent’s jaw.

“Who do you think will be faster?” Argent mocked. “Your brother or me?”

“Neither,” Treville responded and d’Artagnan almost allowed himself to smile at the shadow of doubt that passed through Argent’s expression.

Before another word could be said, d’Artagnan felt the kick of Aramis’ arm press into his back as the marksman pulled the trigger and he grunted helplessly as pain flashed from his shoulder across his chest, his eye blurring as he saw the man with the musket fall from his place behind the tree, Armistead’s back no longer exposed to attack. Argent stepped back in surprise and d’Artagnan felt Aramis slump heavily against him for a moment.

He couldn’t push himself up; he was pinned against the neck of his horse by the weight of his friend’s weary, wounded body, his eyes glued to his Captain. Treville lowered his sword slightly, as if he expected Argent to concede defeat. It was one of the few times d’Artagnan would ever see his Captain be taken off-guard. Argent took a breath and d’Artagnan knew in that instant he was going to pull both triggers.

Suddenly he couldn’t keep up. Everything happened so fast it was as if the world stood still around them. There was no sound, it seemed, saved the blood hammering in his ears. He could feel his shoulder throbbing, blood slipping down his side, soaking his shirt, his breeches, his weapon’s belt. He could feel Aramis trembling at his back, unable yet to pull himself upright. He could see Porthos pull his weapon.

Then he saw Athos dart forward in a blur of motion, slamming Treville to the ground just as Argent and Armistead both fired.

With a gusty pull of air, Aramis managed to force himself upright and d’Artagnan heard him swearing in at least three different languages, one hand on d’Artagnan’s back as he regained his balance. Sluggishly, he allowed his friend to pull him up off the neck of the horse and he managed to slump more or less in a sitting position as the rising sun painted the macabre scene before him with an incongruous golden light.

Argent lay dead. Porthos was near him, kicking the weapons from his slack hands. Athos was on the ground where he’d fallen with Treville, but the Captain had crawled free of Athos’ protection and was holding his brother in his lap, bent over the stained white hair, his hand cupping the older man’s cheek.

“I was wrong,” Claude du Peyer—d’Artagnan could no longer think of him as the rebellious Armistead—wheezed, blood splattering his lips as he gasped for breath. “And now you are the last.”

Treville said nothing; he simply pressed his forehead against Claude’s, his bandage slipping slightly with the contact.

“Forgive…me,” Claude gasped wetly, his chest heaving. “Brother.”

d’Artagnan felt his eyes burn and a strange ache build in his throat as the older man’s body slowly relaxed, the air hissing from him with a strangled sound.

“I do,” Treville said solemnly, his voice tight with emotion.

Athos stood and moved over to their Captain, silently laying a supportive hand on the man’s shoulder. They stood there for several moments, none of them moving, no one speaking, until Treville lifted his head, looking around. He met each of their eyes for a moment, then nodded, grasping Athos’ hand and rose to his feet.

“We cannot bury them here,” he said.

“There horses aren’t far,” Porthos informed them. “We could…return them. To Villers-Cotterêts.”

Treville looked at the ground. “Yes,” he finally nodded. “We cannot risk returning ourselves.” He looked toward the east, the sun having finally crested the horizon, the light painting his wounded face and exposing his profound sadness. “Claude was right: I am the last of them, and for that reason, I can never go home.”

“Villers-Cotterêts is not your home, Captain,” Athos said quietly.

As Porthos mounted and wheeled his horse to round up the others, d’Artagnan slumped in his saddle, his back curling until he could feel Aramis against him.

“Aramis?”

“Mmm?”

“You never told me you spoke Spanish.” Rather than outright asking the man if he were all right, d’Artagnan chose to reveal that he already knew the contrary. “And English.”

“My dear friend,” Aramis grunted, shifting slightly to ease the pressure on his leg. “I believe you’ll find I’m full of surprises.”

“I don’t doubt that,” d’Artagnan murmured with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Aramis placed his hands at d’Artagnan’s sides, pulling himself into a better seat behind the saddle. “In any case, I—“

d’Artagnan heard him break off, and brought his head up, thinking he’d noticed other attackers. When he saw no immediate threat, he shifted to look to his side and saw Aramis’ hand, red with blood from where it had pressed against d’Artagnan’s side.

“Say nothing,” d’Artagnan hissed. “Not yet.”

“When, exactly?” Aramis snapped in reply. “Before or after you pass out from blood loss and we’re forced to bury _you_ on the side of the road?”

“Preferably before,” d’Artagnan retorted. “But it’s not that bad. The bleeding has slowed.”

“The ball is still in there,” Aramis pointed out.

“Yes, I’m aware of that, thank you.”

“Anyone inform you that you’re more stubborn than usual when you’ve been shot?”

d’Artagnan managed to glance over his shoulder, before straightening once more. “As this is only the second time in my life I’ve been shot, I’ll keep that in mind.” His exchange with Aramis had begun to send some energy back into d’Artagnan. “In all seriousness…how are you?”

Aramis sighed and d’Artagnan felt for a moment the weight of his friend at his back once more. This time, however, it felt warm, and he pulled comfort from the contact.

“I have never been so tired,” Aramis admitted. “But we are Musketeers, are we not?” He nudged d’Artagnan from behind and they both looked toward the bend in the road where Athos, Porthos, and Treville were lifting the bodies and tying them to the backs of their horses. “Regardless of the obstacle, no matter the cost, we rise and then rise again.”

d’Artagnan nodded, waiting as Porthos and Athos clapped their hands on the rumps of the horses, sending them back home with their morbid cargo. When the other three were mounted once more, Athos paused at their horse, his blue eyes raking over both as though they were being tested.

“I see your wound has not impaired your steady hand,” he said to Aramis.

“Athos, please,” Aramis said, shrugging off the gratitude under scoring Athos’ tone. “I could have made that shot in my sleep.”

Athos gifted him with a rare half smile before sliding his gaze to d’Artagnan. “Are you able to ride a bit further? We need to put some distance between us and Villers-Cotterêts.”

“He’s—“ Aramis started.

“—ready to go,” d’Artagnan broke in, nodding once at Athos.

“We will break soon to check your wounds,” Athos promised.

d’Artagnan nodded and moved his horse into a canter, the gait much easier on Aramis’ wounded leg, and noticed that Porthos pulled his mount up close to them, his dark eyes missing nothing. He was glad for his big friend’s proximity. He could feel Aramis still trembling behind him; the pain in his leg no doubt intense.

“If you pass out on me,” Aramis suddenly whispered in his ear, “I will not be happy.”

“Duly noted,” d’Artagnan whispered back.

Treville rode next to Athos, once in a while reaching up to press a hand against his head as if to ward off a bolt of pain, but keeping his seat, his shoulders square. d’Artagnan thought about the stories Porthos and Aramis had shared about why they had been willing to risk everything – their future, their commissions, their lives – to save this man. He knew he felt the same; were it not for Treville calling his name in that ring to fight LeBarge, d’Artagnan had no idea where he’d be.

He’d lost his mother long ago; the most he remembered of her now were the songs she’d sing him in the language of Gascony. He’d been an only child, their family’s one hope to continue the d’Artagnan name. His father had been his world, his one connection to a future, despite a persistent ache behind his heart whispering to him that he did not belong.

 _Charles, you must listen_.

His father had constantly found it necessary to bring his attention back to focus as he taught him of France, the monarchies, the ways of a gentlemen. He had learned grains and growing season. He had learned about livestock. And he’d learned his father’s idea of honor.

“Easy there, lad.”

Unexpectedly, Porthos was pressing a hand to his right shoulder, settling him back straight in the saddle. He blinked, lifting his head and looking around. They’d slowed to a walk. He could feel Aramis’ head resting at the base of his neck, his body heavy against him as if in sleep. He hadn’t realized he’d also nodded off; he didn’t recall closing his eyes.

“Just a bit longer,” Porthos promised. “Stay with me, d’Artagnan.”

“’m here,” d’Artagnan replied, grateful that Porthos kept his hand on his arm, however.

If there was one man who embodied his father’s ideal of honor among these three inseparable friends, d’Artagnan would be hard-pressed to choose between Athos and Porthos. Athos was the obvious choice for many, and d’Artagnan would give his life for him, but Porthos – for all his card playing and occasional cheating – had found his path to honor not through birth, but through choice.

He had fought and survived, pulling himself from an orphaned beginning in the Court of Miracles to find a place among the most elite regiment of soldiers in all of France. He loved his brothers fiercely and d’Artagnan had watched him protect even a vile clown of a man with his life because duty called for it. d’Artagnan knew that even when he’d sought to follow Aramis’ lead and woo a widow for his purse to enter into the Cardinal’s competition, he’d found his heart lost to Madam Alice Clerbeaux, unable, it seemed, to be false when it came to love.

d’Artagnan found honor in that. He looked askance at Porthos, deciding to tell him so.

“Is that right?” Porthos replied, a small smile ghosting his lips. “Don’t know that I’ve heard myself called ‘honorable’ before.”

“My father would’ve liked you,” d’Artagnan declared. “I am fairly certain he would have liked you best.”

“What, not Athos?”

d’Artagnan looked forward to where Athos rode next to their Captain. “He was too much like Athos,” he replied. “He’d’ve spend hours arguing a point simply because Athos said it first.”

“What of Aramis?” Porthos teased, seeming content to keep d’Artagnan talking.

“He wouldn’t approve of the many women,” d’Artagnan sighed, feeling rather sad about that fact. Aramis did seem as though he loved rather easily. What had Porthos said about his heart? He gave it away like paper and allowed them to burn it up. “That’s what it is, isn’t it?” He said suddenly, pain loosening his lips and erasing any thought to discretion with the Captain in earshot. “What the Cardinal thinks he has on you? It’s a woman.”

He felt Aramis straighten suddenly, and saw Porthos shoot a quick look behind him.

“What are you saying?” Aramis asked him suddenly.

“Been trying to figure out what he could possibly know that would give him the idea he owned you,” d’Artagnan muttered, suddenly finding it very difficult to keep his eyes focused on the riders in front of him. He dropped his gaze to his horse’s ears, tracking as they darted to pick up the different sounds around them. “Then I remembered Aramis and how…wrecked he was. ‘Bout a woman. And I remembered how Aramis once had an affair with the Cardinal’s mistress….”

“Too smart for ‘is own good, this one,” he heard Porthos mutter.

“Women make us do strange things,” d’Artagnan continued, feeling himself lean back against Aramis, unaware that his friend’s grip had tightened on him considerably. “Not so honorable things. M’father would’ve been so ‘shamed of me…w’ Constance.” He tried to shrug, but his shoulder throbbed mercilessly, cutting a brief swath of clarity through his musings. “But I loved her. I love her still.”

Constance smelled like lavender, he remembered suddenly. He had buried his face in the fire red of her hair and breathed it in, ignoring the voice telling him it was wrong, turning his back on any honor inside that sought to keep him from her arms. Her mouth had felt warm and right and the way her skin had pressed against his had been like the missing half of his heart finally finding a home.

“Porthos?” he mumbled. “D’you smell lavender?”

“Athos!” he heard Porthos suddenly shout and he jerked in surprise, blinking his eyes open.

The horse had stopped and he glanced around, confused. He could hear a river nearby and felt the sun high in the sky, the heat of it warming his bare head. Aramis’ arms were circling him from behind and he gasped as he felt the man suddenly press a hand against the blood-soaked bandage. He looked over at Porthos and then realized that Athos and Treville had circled back to them.

“How bad?” Athos was saying.

d’Artagnan blinked at him, uncomprehending. Bad? Had they been ambushed? What was causing such a serious look of concern to fold his friend’s normally stoic expression?

“We have to remove the ball,” Aramis replied. “We cannot wait any longer; he’s lost too much blood.”

“There’s enough space between us and anyone following from Villers-Cotterêts,” Treville said. “We can stop here, near the river.”

“I can continue,” d’Artagnan said…or at least he attempted to. What he heard instead was a weak, thin moan as Aramis pressed once more against the bandage.

The horse moved again and d’Artagnan heard the river grow a bit louder. Then he saw Athos reach for him, a tense expression on his face, and he felt suddenly like a child, his father scolding him for wandering off again rather than paying attention to the lessons that were to be his future.

 _Charles, you must listen closely_.

Athos’ arms were joined by Porthos’ and d’Artagnan found himself pulled from the saddle, his legs rather useless when they finally reached the ground. His friends dragged him over to a larger tree with roots spreading like thick fingers across the river bank and down into the water. d’Artagnan let himself lean against a large root, watching with a strange sort of detachment as Porthos eased Aramis from the horse and half-carried his friend over near him.

The horses were unsaddled, the camp assembled in as much time as it took for Aramis to unbuckle the strap that had held d’Artagnan’s arm immobile and kept his bandage in place. Licking his dry lips, d’Artagnan stared at the river, not really connecting to the voices and orders flying around him. He saw a pallet being rolled out and wood being gathered, but the river with its lusty rush over the rocks and earth beneath it drew his attention until his thirst was so great it choked him.

“Aiga,” he whispered finally, turning heavy-lidded eyes to Aramis. He was so very thirsty.

Aramis frowned at him, continuing to pull his jacket and pauldron from his body, exposing his blood-soaked shirt.

“You foolish, brave boy,” Aramis whispered, his words seeming a strange mixture of praise and anger.

d’Artagnan tried once more. “Aiga,” he whispered, reaching for Aramis and grasping his shirtfront as the other man had done to him mere hours before. “Béuer.”

Aramis shouted over his shoulder at Porthos, saying something about his saddlebag and herbs and d’Artagnan moaned because the man wasn’t listening.

 _Charles you must listen_.

“Easy, lad,” Porthos was suddenly at his ear and he was being lifted from the solace of the tree and laid out on the pallet, his shirt peeled away and his blood-dampened skin chilling despite the warmth of the sun.

“Aiga,” d’Artagnan muttered, fighting to keep his eyes open, beseeching them to _listen_ to him. “ _Aiga_.”

And then Treville was there and he had a water skin in his hand and he was lifting d’Artagnan’s head and helping him drink and the moisture slid down his throat and across his dry lips and d’Artagnan drank until he felt it fill him from his toes. Closing his eyes he dropped his head back and tried to catch his breath, his muscles finally easing a bit.

“He was thirsty,” he heard Treville saying.

“He was calling for water?” Aramis replied. “What language was that?”

He hadn’t been speaking French? d’Artagnan frowned, but found he couldn’t open his eyes. He hadn’t realized….

“Gascony dialect,” Treville replied.

“Hang on, you speak the language of Gascony?” Porthos exclaimed. “Uh, Sir.”

“It isn’t typically something brought up when handing out orders,” Treville replied, “but yes. I understand the language quite well.”

“Will you be able to help him?” Athos was speaking now. d’Artagnan turned his head, seeking the strength and balance he’d always found when Athos was near.

“As long as I don’t have to stand while doing so,” Aramis replied. “Start the fire and fetch the wine.”

It seemed as though they were planning to eat; d’Artagnan felt himself relax at that thought. If they were eating, then things must not be that bad and the urgency he’d felt from the voices around him had just been—

“ _AH_!” Fire licked through his body as something wet spilled across his shoulder. He opened his eyes as he screamed, staring around in confusion at the four faces peering down at him. “What the _hell_?” His voice was rough, as if the scream had torn something loose inside of him.

“The skin is inflamed,” Aramis said.

d’Artagnan turned his head, tracking the sound of his voice. He saw Aramis lifting a bottle of wine. So that’s what it had been. Liquid fire disguised as wine. Something looked wrong, though; Aramis was pale and his hands were shaking. He was wounded; why wasn’t he resting? He should be resting.

“’mis?” d’Artagnan croaked, swallowed and tried again. “Aramis? Are you well?”

Aramis huffed slightly, offering him a shaky smile. “No, my friend. I am not.”

d’Artagnan frowned as Aramis laid a hand on his chest; he hadn’t realized his skin was bare until that moment. Slowly, memory surfaced and for a moment, clarity once more ruled d’Artagnan’s weary brain. He felt the pain slipping from the wound in his shoulder down his chest and then bouncing up to wrap his head in a vice of fire. He licked his lips and blinked hard, forcing his eyes to focus.

“You will do fine,” he said, willing strength he did not feel into his voice. He reached over and clasped the hand Aramis rested on his chest. “I know you will.”

Aramis’ face seemed to fold a bit and emotion d’Artagnan was unused to seeing swam in his friend’s dark eyes. “I pray your faith in me is not misplaced.”

“It has never been before,” d’Artagnan whispered; beneath his grasp, he felt Aramis’ trembling hand begin to steady.

Aramis took a breath and looked up over d’Artagnan’s head. “This will be extremely painful,” he said, his voice calming as he spoke. “I must dig out the ball, clean the wound, and then apply needlework. The only thing I have to offer him is a small amount of laudanum.”

“Then what are you waitin’ for?” Porthos interjected from d’Artagnan’s right. “Give it to ‘im!”

“If I do, we won’t have enough to get him home,” Aramis confessed.

d’Artagnan felt someone grip his hand, palm-to-palm, and he gripped back, recognizing at once that it was Porthos. A part of him knew the big man was looking as much for grounding as he was offering balance.

“d’Artagnan.” Athos spoke from above his head, his calloused hands now resting on either side of his face. “Listen to me.”

_Charles you must listen._

d’Artagnan stared at his friend, offering no resistance.

“I will not leave you. I will remain at your side as you bear this. If you promise me you will _stay_.”

Athos’ eyes held emotion beyond what he’d seen in Aramis’, beyond what he’d heard from Porthos. He was asking d’Artagnan to defy any other destiny except the one which _he_ allowed.

Well then, d’Artagnan was damned if he was going to disappoint him.

“I promise,” he choked out.

Athos nodded to him, then slipped his leather glove between d’Artagnan’s teeth, his hand moving down to the tops of d’Artagnan’s shoulders to brace him. Porthos’ grip on his free hand tightened and d’Artagnan turned his eyes to Aramis. Aramis nodded once to him, then took hold of a small knife smelling strongly of wine, and d’Artagnan’s world went white.

He could hear screaming, but from a distance. His entire body was shivering with heat, melting from flames of pain licking up the length of him. He could feel his muscles contract, twitching and arching, hands pressing him flat as he tried desperately to escape.

The screaming was relentless; it echoed in his head, tore at his throat. He could hear it slipping back through a black tunnel, dragging him along and _oh, God_ it hurt. The pain became a separate thing, a figure in shadow, a beast slashing at him and stabbing him with wicked swords. He wanted to turn from it but each way he sought escape, the shadow was there.

He felt himself sobbing, hot tears painting his face as he fell to his knees in the tunnel, lost and alone and covered in the smell and feel of blood. His blood. His friend’s blood. His father’s blood.

It was raining in the tunnel and he could smell the mud and the horses and the rank, raw stench of the bandits as he fought them. And then his father was falling, falling, and there was more blood, spilling out into the rain, staining the ground around him a deep, unnatural red.

He pleaded for his father to stay.

 _Charles you must listen_.

He promised, anything. Whatever he wanted if he would simply _stay_. Then, suddenly, he was alone. And he listened. He listened for _anything_. Some sound. Some indication that there was light in the tunnel, a way out. The pain wasn’t so bad anymore. He could almost stand it.

Then he heard her. Singing. His mother, the folk songs of Gascony, the words that had framed his childhood. A tale of heroism and bravery, of soldiers and brothers, of battles won and lives lost and a destiny he could only dream of as he learned his father’s definition of honor.

“What is he saying?”

The voice was familiar – distant, but familiar.

“It’s a song,” another voice replied. A voice he felt he should respond to. One he knew his father would want him to pay attention to. “An old Gascon folksong. About a young man who leaves home to fight a war, finds his brother, and then brings his body home.”

His mother’s song. The person speaking knew her song. He wanted to hear her sing more, but she was fading. He repeated the words, hoping to call her back, but she was barely there now. The other voices had replaced the sound of her singing.

“Sounds a bit like his story,” said a third.

“Minus the body o’course.”

“He is stirring.” There. _That_ voice. His father’s voice, only…not. Just enough different that he knew if he called to him, his father would not answer. Still, that voice….

“Father,” he whispered, feeling his lips form around the word, suddenly finding it foreign.

A hand in his hair, a cool cloth at his cheek, fingers gripping his shoulder. None of them his father; all of them familiar, welcome, needed. He let himself sink into their touch, let it ground him, anchor him. Let it be the light he’d sought in a tunnel of darkness. He reached for the light, needing to feel it on his skin, and gripped the hand that caught his tightly, relaxing in the warmth radiating from that light.

It seemed like much later he was finally able to open his eyes; the light had been so real, he was slightly surprised to find darkness once more surrounding him, broken only by the soothing, flickering light emitted by the fire nearby. Without stirring too much – his body warning him that would be a mistake – he took in his surroundings.

He was lying on a pallet near the fire. His left shoulder, which still throbbed insistently with each beat of his heart, was wrapped tightly in several bandages. To his right, Porthos slumped against the tree, arms crossed over his chest, head canted to the side, asleep. Next to him, Aramis lay stretched out on another pallet, his wounded leg propped up on a saddle, his hat over his face, one hand resting on d’Artagnan’s arm as if he couldn’t bring himself to be too far away.

On his left, Athos sat staring at the fire, lost in thought, Treville next to him, facing away from the fire, staring out into the dark, keeping watch.

“Rest, Athos,” Treville said, startling d’Artagnan. He remembered his voice now, talking about the song. His Captain had known his mother’s song…how? “You’re no good to anyone if you collapse from weariness.”

“When d’Artagnan wakes, I will rest,” Athos replied.

d’Artagnan opened his mouth to let his friend know he was awake, but was stopped by Treville’s voice.

“He is not Thomas, you know.”

d’Artagnan froze, his whole body alert, watching, _yearning_ to know the truth about this mysterious, perfect brother whose death changed the course of Athos’ life.

“No, he is not,” Athos agreed. “Thomas actually had a sense of self-preservation.”

“d’Artagnan’s stubbornness just might save his life,” Treville offered.

Athos bounced his head slightly, as if giving that statement some merit. “She told him the same lie,” he said then, and d’Artagnan saw Treville’s shoulders…flinch. “The same one she told me.”

“d’Artagnan, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell him the whole story?”

“It was never the time.”

“Meaning, you didn’t want to burden him with your sorrow,” Treville translated. When Athos didn’t reply, Treville sighed. “Athos, you are one of the finest men I have ever known. You can lead men through Hell and convince them they will defeat the Devil, but it’s the one to one where you could use a little work.”

Athos straightened, frowning, his eyes never leaving the fire. “Meaning?”

“d’Artagnan trusts you with his life, Athos,” Treville stated. “He has fought for you and with you and if you asked him to, he’d die for you. He is _desperate_ to be accepted by you.”

“He is a fool if he thinks he’s not one of us.”

d’Artagnan frowned, a hair’s breadth from speaking up when Treville beat him to it. “You keep everyone at arm’s length, Athos. Aramis and Porthos, they have found a way to breech your walls, and have the years of experience to fight you at your own game, but d’Artagnan needs to know you listen him. That you… _trust_ him.”

Athos said nothing and d’Artagnan once more thought to speak up, but found himself unable to stop watching the unguarded emotion tripping across his friend’s face as he stared at the fire.

“Do you remember the day we met?” Treville asked suddenly.

“Like it was yesterday,” Athos replied.

“You were so drunk, it’s a surprise you remember what city you were in.”

“Paris, wasn’t it?” Athos replied dryly.

“You were about to duel one of the Red Guard without having a clue who the idiot was,” Treville recalled. “I was to arrest you.”

“I remember,” Athos replied. “You made another choice.”

“Even three bottles in, you were a wonder with a sword,” Treville allowed. “I knew if I could sober you up, keep you that way – for the most part – I would have a fine soldier on my hands.”

Athos said nothing.

“You told me you were coming from burying your brother – neglecting to mention, at the time, that you’d also been forced to order your wife to be hanged.”

“It’s a lot of information for an introduction,” Athos stated.

“Do you remember what you said to me when I asked how your brother died?”

Athos dropped his eyes, his head hanging low. d’Artagnan swallowed, unable to look away from the top of his friend’s head.

“You told me he died because he didn’t trust you.”

“He thought he was protecting me,” Athos mumbled toward the ground. “He had no way of knowing how…dangerous…she was. Or,” Athos raised his head, “that I already knew of her past. And didn’t care.”

d’Artagnan caught his breath. Athos had known; Anne had killed Thomas to keep him quiet, not realizing that it hadn’t mattered. The unmitigated tragedy of the situation tore at his heart.

“If he’d just trusted me,” Athos whispered, “he might still be alive.”

“And yet,” Treville said softly, almost casually, “you deny d’Artagnan the same.”

Athos was quiet for a long time. Long enough that d’Artagnan felt his eyes growing heavy once more. And then he sighed.

“When he wakes,” Athos said hesitantly, “perhaps I’ll consider a different tactic.”

“’e’s awake, ya bloody fool,” Porthos grumbled quietly from his slouch against the tree.

d’Artagnan saw Athos’ head come up sharply, staring first toward Porthos, then meeting d’Artagnan’s eyes.

“Been ‘wake since you lot started talking,” Porthos continued.

“As have we,” Aramis called from the depths of his hat.

Athos moved around the fire and offered d’Artagnan some water.

“How do you feel?”

“Better,” d’Artagnan choked out, surprised at how frayed his voice sounded. It must have shown in his expression because Athos smiled slightly.

“You’re going to be a bit hoarse for a while,” he said.

“I heard screaming,” d’Artagnan managed, still trying to piece together real from dream.

“Let’s just say you have an impressive set of lungs,” Aramis replied, his voice sounding hollow as it reverberated against his hat. d’Artagnan felt the hand on his arm tighten slightly.

Athos offered him more water, then sat back. “The ball was in deep,” he informed d’Artagnan. “Took Aramis quite a bit of effort to get it out and sew up the wound.”

d’Artagnan nodded carefully, still rather hesitant to move.

“We did get the bleeding stopped, though,” Athos continued. “If you don’t develop an infection, after a good deal of rest—“

“Actual, real, _do nothing_ rest,” Aramis chimed in.

“—you should heal.”

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan said, hoping the men around him knew he included them all in the sentiment.

“Think nothin’ of it,” Porthos muttered, alleviating his concerns.

“I heard voices,” d’Artagnan said suddenly as Athos started to move away.

“Voices?”

d’Artagnan frowned, trying to explain. “My mother’s song,” he managed to croak out.

“ _You_ were talking,” Athos explained. “Murmuring the words. Treville understands the Gascony dialect.”

“I…spoke in Gascon?” d’Artagnan asked, surprised.

“Yes.”

He blinked, absorbing that. He hadn’t realized he still knew how to do that. Let alone that Treville understood him.

“Rest,” Athos ordered, moving back to his place by the fire. “It’ll be morning soon enough.”

“You promised to sleep,” d’Artagnan reminded him. “I’m awake. So…sleep.”

He saw Treville’s shoulders shift a bit as though laughing. Athos sighed, then nodded.

“Agreed.”

“Nicely done, lad,” Porthos mumbled as d’Artagnan felt his lids growing too heavy to keep up.

When he woke next, it was still dark, but he was thirsty and the fire had burned down to glowing coals. Aramis was still asleep, as were Athos and Treville. Porthos sat near him, staring up at the star-studded sky.

“Porthos.”

The big man flinched, startled.

“Water?”

“Ah, you’re speaking in French again,” Porthos commented, helping him drink his fill from the water skin. “That’s a relief.”

“Didn’t actually know I remembered the other. Haven’t heard it in years,” d’Artagnan admitted. “What else did I say?”

“Lot o’stuff ‘bout your father. Called for him a few times.”

d’Artagnan frowned. “Sorry about that.”

“Why? You loved your father. Stands to reason you’d want him near when you were hurtin’.”

He had. He missed him. Quite a bit, actually. In different ways each day that time took him further from the moment the body he held in his arms ceased to be the living being that was Alexandre d’Artagnan and become simply a _body_.

He missed his laugh, and the feel of his hand at the back of his neck. He missed the earnest look he’d get in his eyes as he explained yet another new thing about the world or their farm. He missed the way he sighed at the end of a long day, the sound telling anyone near that he was a happy man, satisfied with his life.

He missed the way he smelled of tobacco and wine, and how he’d always ask for Armagnac, no matter where they traveled. He missed his presence, his reassurance…but most of all, he missed his voice. It hurt, some days, how he could _almost_ hear it, as if he were simply around a corner, yet still too far away.

“Athos sounds like him,” d’Artagnan confessed.

Porthos nodded. “You said he wanted you to listen.”

“What?”

“ _Charles, you must listen_ ,” Porthos repeated. “You said it over and over. What were you supposed to listen to?”

d’Artagnan swallowed, feeling tears burn the backs of his eye and close off his throat. He was supposed to listen to everything. Every word. Every thought. He was supposed to care enough to pay attention. And he hadn’t. He had always been looking away, his mind on the horizon, he heart shaped into a sword, not a plow.

“Him,” he replied, choking back the emotion he knew Porthos could easily see in his eyes.

“Get some rest, lad,” Porthos told him, brushing his hair from his eyes. “We’ll be on the road in the morning.”

d’Artagnan was about to acquiesce when a thought occurred to him.

“Porthos.”

The big man turned to regard him.

“I am right, aren’t I?”

“You may have to narrow it down a bit.”

“About Aramis. What the Cardinal holds over you.”

Porthos looked down. “Aye,” he whispered. Looking up, he pinned d’Artagnan with a serious expression. “But you must trust me, lad. We cannot tell you the details, not even who the woman is. It’s for your own safety.”

d’Artagnan lay quietly, studying Porthos’ expression, thinking. Who would Aramis have had an affair with that would cause such consternation among his closest friends? Such true fear for his safety that they would allow the Cardinal to believe they’d be willing to assassinate Treville on his say-so? Any of the ladies of court were known to take lovers. There was no reason for scandal. Only the Queen would—

d’Artagnan’s thought froze. The Queen. The assassination attempt. The abbey.

His expression must have revealed the direction of his thoughts because Porthos turned to him, gripping his wrist, true fear in his eyes.

“Oh… _my God_ ….” d’Artagnan breathed.

“Say _nothing_ ,” Porthos pleaded earnestly. “You don’t know the whole story.”

d’Artagnan suddenly realized he didn’t need to know.

Aramis loved – completely, for the moment – and he carried the pain that love brought him. This was not something he would have ever gloated about; if he’d slept with the Queen it had not been out of conquest or curiosity, but out of love, need. If anyone understood what it meant to be swept up by love, defying honor and decency for just a moment of connection with the other half of one’s heart, it was d’Artagnan.

“There’s no need for an explanation,” d’Artagnan told Porthos earnestly. “He is my brother, as are you. Your pain is mine, your burdens my burdens. I promise you, no one will ever know.”

Porthos visibly relaxed. “Wish it would be that easy to change the Cardinal’s mind.”

“What evidence does he have?” d’Artagnan asked.

Porthos looked up. “What?”

“I mean, besides his word, which, let’s face it is rather fragile at the moment thanks for his part in trying to _kill the Queen_ ,” d’Artagnan remarked, “what proof does he have?”

“N-nothing, I ‘spect.”

“Then just tell him he’s wrong,” d’Artagnan replied. “I’m certain the Queen will not confess and if he tries to tell the King, he’ll look like a fool.”

“’at jus’ might work,” Porthos muttered.

“You are very clever, d’Artagnan,” came a sleep-heavy voice from across the fire. “Now go to sleep or I’ll lace your water with laudanum.”

d’Artagnan smiled at Athos’ order, letting himself be lulled back to sleep by focusing on the glowing coals of the fire. The third time he woke, it was finally daylight and the men around him were breaking camp. Without thinking, he tried to roll to his side and sit up, but his arm screamed so loud he bit off a broken cry of pain, drawing Athos to his side immediately.

“Easy,” Athos said softly. “You’re doing better, but you’ve a good amount of healing to do.”

“So it would seem,” d’Artagnan groaned as he let the older man help him carefully to his feet, supporting him. “How’s Aramis?”

“His wound is not infected, but he’s quite sore, and a bit…surly.”

d’Artagnan allowed Athos to help him to the other side of the tree where he could relieve himself, then return to the camp to eat whatever was left from the breakfast the others had laid out. He watched Porthos watch Aramis move about the camp, lurching dangerously on his wounded leg, ready to catch his friend, but never actually touching him.

“I _feel_ your eyes on me, Porthos,” Aramis grumbled.

“I jus’ want to make sure ya don’t end up face down.”

“I am _fine_ ,” Aramis muttered. “I just have a hole in my leg that had to be _burned shut_ , that’s all. No reason for you to act like I’ll shatter if a strong wind blows through.”

d’Artagnan glanced at Athos. “I see what you mean.”

“Now, don’t _you_ start,” Aramis snapped, frowning fiercely at him.

d’Artagnan lifted his free hand in a gesture of surrender and kept quiet.

Aramis continued to mutter under his breath, much to Athos’ amusement. “Put you back together, worry over you, and all you do is make sure I don’t fall over. Ha! I can keep myself upright without your damn eyes following me around all the damn place….”

When they’d broken camp, Athos gave him a small dose of the laudanum – not enough, Aramis assured, to knock him out, just enough to make riding a horse bearable and keep his needlework intact – and helped him mount his horse, ensuring he had a solid grip with his right hand and that his left was completely immobile before mounting his own horse.

d’Artagnan saw that Aramis was once more behind Porthos’ horse, his hands resting comfortably on Porthos’ weapons belt, his body canted forward a bit so that he was basically leaning on his friend. Perhaps ensuring that he didn’t fall over had finally translated to _care_ in Aramis’ mind.

They rode on, stopping to eat, check wounds, and rest the horses. d’Artagnan wasn’t able to keep his eyes open for the whole ride and Treville fashioned a rope sling to keep him from falling off his horse when his body simply gave in to exhaustion. The second night on the Pass, d’Artagnan found himself sitting up with Treville, taking the first watch.

“How’s the shoulder?”

Treville’s question was almost conversational and d’Artagnan had a moment to feel slightly off-balance about carrying on a conversation with his Captain as if he were, well, Porthos. Or Aramis. He didn’t really even talk with Athos in such a casual manner, yet Treville was asking and now he’d allowed the silence extend to a point where the man was looking up at him, a bit worried that he hadn’t responded.

“It…hurts,” he replied honestly. “But Aramis seems to think it’s healing well.”

“Good,” Treville nodded. “Would hate to lose one of my best soldiers.”

That he could handle. Musketeer business, being part of the unit. Anything else was simply too…real. He was about to lay back on the pallet Athos had once more spread out for him, leaving Treville to his first watch when his Captain spoke once more.

“The rain,” he said quietly. “It reminds you of your father, doesn’t it?”

d’Artagnan stared at Treville with surprise.

“That’s why you stay in the livery when it storms?”

“Y-yes,” d’Artagnan stuttered an answer.

Treville nodded. “For me it was snow.”

d’Artagnan nodded, though he didn’t truly understand.

“You know enough by now to know my arrival in Paris was under…rather dubious circumstances.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The one thing my father did for me was to send a letter on my behalf to the previous Captain of the Musketeers, allowing me to train as a recruit. I resolutely resisted. For three days.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I was cornered by a vagrant and I was losing the fight. Badly. Two Musketeers showed up and without any reason or reward, saved me.”

d’Artagnan nodded more slowly this time.

“I realized that by resisting my father’s choice for me, I was damning myself to the same fate as those I’d fought alongside in the uprising.” Treville rubbed at his head again, pressing his palm tightly to his temple. “I didn’t even know what I’d been fighting for.”

“Do you now?” d’Artagnan asked.

Treville glanced at him. “Yes, d’Artagnan. I do. It’s the same reason you fight: the man beside you.”

d’Artagnan studied his Captain, sensing there was more.

“Each of you men—the whole regiment, but you four in particular—were chosen for this life. I knew the moment I saw each of you that the Musketeers would be better for having you in the ranks.”

“What about…,” d’Artagnan swallowed, glancing toward a sleeping Porthos, thinking of Belloq and the post in the center of the garrison courtyard. “Those who aren’t of nobility?”

Treville glanced to the side, studying him for a moment before looking away. “d’Artagnan,” he said finally. “People will tell you who you are your entire life…until _you_ inform them who you are.”

d’Artagnan huffed out a small laugh. “You sound like my father.”

“From what I’ve heard, he sounds like he was an honorable man.”

d’Artagnan nodded, his smile fading, but the warmth lingering as he finally lay down to rest. He wasn’t woken that night for watch, and he managed to avoid a single dream. Aramis carefully shook him awake when dawn brushed the sky, checking the bandage at his shoulder. Though painful to move and sensitive to Aramis’ inspecting fingers, the sensation of fire in his limb had abated. Aramis lifted a brow at him as he rewrapped the wound.

“What?” d’Artagnan asked, worried slightly by the enigmatic expression.

“You broke your promise,” Aramis replied, one hand dropping to his wounded leg, fingers gripping as if to staunch a shimmer of pain.

“My promise?” d’Artagnan tilted his head, confused.

“To completely avoid injury,” Aramis reminded him.

d’Artagnan dropped his eyes, a smirk dancing on his lips. “I am sorry about that.”

“See that you avoid it in the future,” Aramis scolded him, his mouth relaxing into a genuinely relieved smile.

Once Aramis finished, d’Artagnan found he was able to sit forward without assistance, this time mounting his horse without the help of the medicine, though still requiring his friend’s strong arm to support him.

At mid-day, they arrived at the garrison.

d’Artagnan hadn’t really paused to think about their reception upon returning home. He’d just wanted a bed and several days off horseback, but the moment they rode into the busy courtyard, all motion ceased. The men in the training area lowered their swords, those at the table stopped chewing, and the few loitering on the balcony outside Treville’s office – where d’Artagnan knew Belloq was holding court – turned to stare down at them in shock.

It came as no surprise to the weary men that Belloq was the first to speak. Exiting Treville’s office, he stared first at the men in the courtyard, opening his mouth to call them to action when his gaze was caught by the five men on horseback.

“Captain Treville!” he bleated, his voice squeaking a bit at the end of the word.

“Lt. Belloq,” Treville returned. “I see you’ve kept everyone busy in my absence.”

“Y-yes, Sir,” Belloq replied, descending the stairs and approaching Treville’s horse.

d’Artagnan watched him gape as he noticed who was sitting astride a horse next to the Captain. “You! I had thought you to be a deserter.”

“After you chained me to a post? What could possibly be my reason?” d’Artagnan remarked, grimacing as his voice still slid out rough and broken from his ordeal.

“Men!” Treville’s voice pitched out across the garrison, demanding the attention of the regiment and cutting off any reply Belloq might have generated to d’Artagnan’s remark. “No doubt you’ve heard a number of rumors and speculations in the wake of my absence over the last few days. I want to set your understanding straight now that I’ve returned.”

His pale eyes slid over each man in the garrison. “In the last three days,” he continued, “I have been witness to acts of bravery and sacrifice the likes of which are immeasurable and worthy of the highest honor of a Musketeer. I owe my life to the men you see at my side, some of whom have returned with me much worse for the wear.”

His gaze fell on Belloq, then shifted up to the group of men. d’Artagnan saw Arnaud and Mathieu standing at the back of the courtyard, each leaning against a post, eyes on the Captain. He saw Bauer’s head down, listening, and he caught Grisier’s eye, the other man smiling with something that almost looked like…pride.

“They are your brothers, regardless of their past, no matter their bloodline. They fight, they _bleed_ , for each of you. Being a Musketeer is not about nobility. It is not about entitlement. It is about brotherhood,” he looked askance at d’Artagnan and smiled. “And honor.”

Turning his eyes back to the men, he said quietly. “We have all lost. Individually, we are all the last of something. A family, a way of life, a series of choices. We have all searched for something and found it here, among our brothers. We found our place through skill and effort, sweat and tears. We have all _earned_ our place in the ranks of the King’s Musketeers!”

A low ripple of agreement began to build from the back of the men gathered in the courtyard, increasing in passion and intensity until d’Artagnan saw Grisier shove his fist into the air with a cheer. Treville waited until the enthusiasm tapered, then looked askance at Porthos.

“Take these two to the infirmary,” he instructed. “Make sure they stay until the surgeon is satisfied they are able to leave.”

“But, Sir, your head—“ Aramis began to protest.

“I will visit the infirmary myself upon my return,” Treville replied. “I have to first speak to the King.” He looked at Belloq. “You and Athos are coming with me.”

Belloq nodded, his face quite pale. d’Artagnan almost felt sorry for him. Porthos swung his leg forward across his horse’s neck, dismounting, then reaching up to help Aramis from the back of the saddle. With Athos gone, d’Artagnan wasn’t certain how he would get off his horse without ending up as a puddle of loose limbs and bandages.

“Need some help?”

d’Artagnan looked up to see Grisier standing at his horse’s head, one hand on the animal’s bridle. He nodded, eyes wary as Arnaud and Mathieu approached from across the courtyard. He saw Porthos pause and he and Aramis turn to carefully regard the men as they reached d’Artagnan’s side. Grisier reached up and braced him as he swung his leg across and reached the ground, then quickly drew his arm across his shoulder, balancing him until he was able to find his legs.

“Stabbed?”

“Shot,” d’Artagnan replied.

“That’ll tear you up,” Grisier said, grimacing in sympathy.

Arnaud nodded at d’Artagnan and took Porthos’ horse while Mathieu grabbed d’Artagnan’s. Grisier helped him into the infirmary where he and Aramis sat on beds facing each other, waiting their turns. Porthos perched on a shelf to the side of the beds, watching with just as much interest as d’Artagnan as Bauer joined Grisier in the room, leaning against the wall, waiting to see what the surgeon’s verdict would be.

After examining Aramis’ leg, cleaning and redressing the wound, he pronounced him able to return to quarters providing he maintained a schedule of light duty including no riding – of _any kind_ – for two weeks. Porthos chuckled at the surgeon’s choice of words.

“Don’t know if you’ve ever willingly gone two days, let ‘lone two _weeks_ without…riding,” he laughed.

Aramis scowled at him briefly, then his face broke into a sunny grin. “My dear Porthos,” he said smoothly, “there are many ways by which a man can partake in _riding_ , some involving only his hands.”

Porthos’ smile slipped. “Wait, I think I lost part o’ this conversation. We talking ‘orses or women?”

d’Artagnan grinned as Aramis chuckled. “Have a seat,” he said to Porthos, patting the edge of his narrow infirmary bed. “I’ll teach you everything there is to know about pleasing a woman.”

Porthos shook his head and scowled, crossing his arms over his chest and turned his attention to d’Artagnan as the surgeon removed his bandage at his shoulder. There was much remarking of the damage – though well mended -- of his general state of weariness – though understandable – and the fact that he was far too thin for a Musketeer.

“’at’ll happen when you’re chained up for a day with no food,” Porthos interjected, “’fore you run off to play hero.” He slid his eyes across to Bauer and Grisier, both of whom glanced away.

“Easy, Porthos,” d’Artagnan soothed. “Remember who gave me the key to aid my escape.”

“’at’s right!” Porthos grinned at Grisier, all sins instantly forgiven. “I forgot ‘bout that.”

“You did that?” Bauer asked.

Grisier lifted his chin. “I did.”

Bauer smiled. “Nicely done.”

Grisier caught d’Artagnan’s eye as if to say, _see, I told you._ With a nod in his direction, the other two Musketeers left. The surgeon ordered d’Artagnan to remain overnight for rest and food and then instructed him to limit his activities to light duty for two weeks as well.

“Young d’Artagnan gets to ride, eh?” Porthos teased Aramis.

“He was wounded in the _shoulder_ ,” Aramis pointed out, his eyebrow arched.

“Guess that leaves out pleasing a woman with just your hands,” Porthos grinned wickedly, causing d’Artagnan’s face to turn an embarrassing shade of red.

Porthos and Aramis left him to the aid of the surgeon as they cleaned up from the road. By the time they’d returned, d’Artagnan had eaten, had his fill of water, and was lounging near sleep once more. He perked up, though, when he saw Athos enter with them.

“How did the King take the news?” he asked eagerly.

“You mean the news that Treville received word there was a potential uprising in one of the outlying townships and took immediate precautions to eradicate it?” Athos asked.

d’Artagnan’s eyebrows were buried beneath his hairline. “Um. Yes?”

“Quite well, actually.”

“Any word on…,” Aramis glanced at the ground then up once more. “The other matter?”

“From the Cardinal, no.” Athos stated. “The Queen is looking well and asked after the health of my friends after our ordeal. I informed her that both you and d’Artagnan had been wounded—“

“You _tested_ her?” Aramis exclaimed.

“Her, the Cardinal, Belloq, anyone who might be party to your hanging…and, subsequently, my own,” Athos returned. “She did remarkably well. She showed concern and wished you a speedy recovery.”

Aramis sighed, nodded, and his shoulders dropped a bit before he looked up once more. “And the Cardinal?”

“Unable to utter a syllable.”

“Told you,” d’Artagnan grinned.

“Yes, you’re very smart,” Athos commented dryly. “Now, I suggest we all rest up, heal up, and return to our training.”

“Athos,” d’Artagnan called before the other man could leave the small room. “Thank you.”

Athos looked puzzled. “For what?”

“For believing me,” d’Artagnan replied.

“For leading us,” Porthos chimed in.

“For standing by us,” Aramis agreed. “Especially in the light of…everything.”

Athos looked at Aramis, then let his eyes travel the other two, taking them all in with his words. “You are my brothers,” he said solemnly. “That is all we need know.”

Aramis’ handsome face relaxed into a genuine smile of gratitude.

“Now, you three, rest,” Athos ordered. “I believe there’s a bottle or two of wine back in my quarters with my name on it.”

Too happy to admit he was immeasurably weary, d’Artagnan sank once more on the bed, watching as Aramis placed a hand on Porthos’ shoulder to help him limp forward.

“Oh, Porthos. One more thing,” Athos said, pausing in the doorway. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a fist-sized black metal ball with a long fuse protruding from the top. He tossed it to Porthos who caught it easily. “For next time.”

Porthos’ boisterous laugh erased any confusion about what d’Artagnan had missed. His friends filed out, telling him they’d see him in the morning, and he lay carefully back on the small bed, letting his body remember what it felt like to relax.

That night, it rained. And d’Artagnan slept until morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this; would love to hear from you if you did. If you enjoyed the story, you may also enjoy this fantastic fanvid created by the wonderful **el1ie** : [The Inseparables](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4KuguXvr_c8&list=FLkeW_eE5QRSaNbzdAskydtg&index=1)
> 
> A couple of closing notes:
> 
> Villers-Cotterêts in Picardy, France is actually where Dumas hails from.
> 
> Alexandre Grisier and Henry Bauer (two of the Musketeer regiment) are names from Dumas’ history. Belloq (the arrogant asshole of a Musketeer) was named for Indiana Jones’ nemesis, René Belloq, in _Raiders of the Lost Ark_.
> 
> Bellamy, in French, actually means “beautiful friend.”
> 
> A harquebus can also be spelled ‘arquebus’ but in either spelling it is the smaller, shorter-barreled pistol used when a musket is just not practical. A schiavona is a heavier, broader sword than the rapier. In the show, Porthos carries a sword decidedly larger and heavier-looking than the rapiers wielded by the other three.
> 
> In the Gascon dialect, _aiga_ means water and _béuer_ means drink. It’s entirely possible that in the 17th century, a Parisian would understand the language from another region in France, but I thought it added a bit of character layers to have d’Artagnan speak a language only Treville understood.
> 
> The name _Jean-Armand du Peyer, Comte de Treville_ is pulled from the original story, but Claude, his older rebellious brother, is a complete fabrication for this story. As is Treville’s past participation in an uprising against the monarchy. And all of the stories about the reasons the men felt they owed Treville. That, my friends, is why I adore fiction. So many lovely possibilities.
> 
> Each chapter title (Reconnaissance, Sortie, Coup de Main, Debellatio, and Hors de Combat) are reference to battle terminology and served a specific purpose for the flow of this story.
> 
> I think that’s it. 


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